How one wave of a magic mascara wand saved my life
After a horror car crash, Jordan lost the use of her legs – and the will to live. Now she’s a beauty blogger loved by millions... all thanks to one amazing moment
JORDAN BONE is an internet sensation. Her video blogs offering fashion and make-up tips have hundreds of thousands of subscribers and her inspiring film, My Beautiful Struggle, has been seen by 22 million people on YouTube and Facebook.
Yet, for all her undoubted glamour, 27-year-old Jordan has been paralysed from the neck down ever since a horrific car crash left her life in ruins at the age of 15. Here, in her own words, is the inspiring story of how, brush stroke by brush stroke, she rebuilt it.
HEY, Tim. Wow, is that your car?’ A silver Citroen Saxo stops at the kerbside. The 17-yearold driver, a local lad who’s just passed his test, invites us for a spin.
My friend Sarah and I share a look, thinking it might not be a good idea, but we step in anyway. It is May 2005 and the last time I will ever walk.
Tim spots some lads in a car behind: ‘ Let’s lose them.’ The car gets faster, the music louder. I want to get out, but don’t have the courage to beg. ‘We’re going to die,’ I think.
The last thing I remember is the screaming as the world turns over. Then silence. I hear voices from the roadside and feel an agonising pain in my neck.
‘Call an ambulance,’ I say with as much strength as I can manage from the upside- down car. ‘ Help me, I can’t breathe! Undo the seat belt!’ Then I feel the sudden jolt of relief. My head snaps forward. Perhaps that was when my neck was broken. I DON’T remember being taken to the Queen Elizabeth Hospital in King’s Lynn after the crash, or the moment a doctor took my mum aside to tell her the worst. ‘ Jordan has broken her neck,’ he told her, his voice softening. ‘She is tetraplegic and may need to lie on her back for the rest of her life.’
Mum came in to see me, her eyes glistening. ‘ I don’t care what the doctors say. It’s all going to be OK.’
I was taken to surgery, six holes were drilled into my skull and a metal ‘halo’ screwed into the bone to keep my head secure. My life was in the balance. I’d seen doctors and nurses huddled round. They seemed to have no idea what to do other than keep me stock-still.
I was in massive shock. I could not feel the white cotton sheets against my legs. I couldn’t feel t he breeze on my arms or the tight socks the nurses made me wear to prevent blood clots. My thoughts focused on the precious moments before I got into the car. The ‘what ifs’ became mental torture and I cried a lot.
A week or so later, it was all action. A bed had become free at a specialist spinal injury ward in Sheffield. Mum packed my bags and set off by car. A couple of hours later, I was wheeled off to the helipad.
The sound of the engines was deafening. As the helicopter jerked into the sky, I felt like screaming – I felt sick and was terrified we would crash. Our landing was followed by a bustle of paramedics as I was taken into the new hospital. Mum was already there.
The consultants thought they could rebuild my neck with bone grafts. But there were risks – I may not survive t he operation, my injury could be made worse or my vocal cords could be severed – no talking or singing ever again.
On t he day of the op, I said to the surgeon: ‘Let’s get this right. If the operation is successful I’ll be able to sit upright without the halo?’ He nodded. ‘Let’s do it – forget the risks, I’m ready.’
Six hours later, the recovery ward came into focus. I was in agonising pain. Because I was still 15, I could only have a child’s dose of morphine. It wasn’t nearly enough.
Soon afterwards, I set a goal of getting strong enough to sit in a wheelchair by July 1.
I needed something to focus on. Mum has always said that I’m mentally strong. I guess I’ve had to be. I never knew my dad. ‘OH MY God, I’m not sitting in that!’ I looked over at the hideous big black wheelchair. ‘Mum, seriously. I’ll look like Frankenstein in that!’ Luckily for me, Mum knew what to say. ‘Yes, it’s hideous, but you have to do this. It is your ticket to independence.’ I felt thrilled to be upright, though the room spun and I was too weak to sit straight. I made the mistake of glancing into a mirror and was struck by the sight of a pale, sickly looking girl in a huge black wheelchair. I burst into tears. But once my tears had dried, I concentrated on the feeling of movement and the new sights on the ward. Before I knew it, I was humming a song. When my best friend Katie came to visit, she noticed my hair hadn’ t been highlighted. Mum had offered to get in a hairdresser, but I didn’t feel I could look attractive again when I was tetraplegic. But a small glimmer of blonde made me feel more ‘me’ and increased my confidence. In August, the day I told my consultant I wanted to spend my birthday at home was another landmark. I had two months to become strong enough to be home by October. Would I be ready? I had no idea. ‘I need to know I can go home. Please say yes – it’ll mean the world to me.’ The consultant nodded and I beamed. I was going home for my 16th and I could get on with living my life. My new occupational therapist was a glamorous woman with thick mascara and stylish hair. Words gushed out: ‘ Wow, you look fab! – I used to wear my mascara like that.’ ‘What do you mean, used to? Why aren’t you wearing it now? Let’s do it!’ Excitement rose inside me. Make-up has always meant much more to me than vanity. It was a way of expressing my creativity and gaining confidence. She stroked t he creamy liquid on to my lashes and held up a mirror. I squealed with happi-
The car goes faster. I am sure we are all going to die...
ness. ‘You’re a beautiful girl, Jordan, remember that. You can be tetraplegic and glamorous.’
Another breakthrough came when I asked a nurse to put a fork between my thumb and forefinger to feed myself for the first time. I have very limited control of my arms but if I could hold a fork, why not mascara or lipstick? I sat at the nurses’ station all day, asking them to hand me the mascara applicator. I dropped it a hundred times, swearing as it left a black trail down my T-shirt. Each time I asked to have it put back in my hands, permanently balled into fists by my injury.
Finally I worked out a way to hold the applicator between my fingers and bent towards it, willing the mascara brush to touch my eyelashes. It took several days of black eyes, but the more I persevered, the more ‘normal’ it looked.
This gave me more than hope; it gave me definition. In make-up terms, definition is sculpting the face, redesigning the natural look. My life had been formed into a new shape by my injury. Applying my own make-up was way more profound than making me look nicer. It was a way of redefining my expectations about myself, and perhaps other people’s.
We all face challenges. We can either overcome them, work round them or give up. You can define your own life by deciding what makes you happy and going for it. Think of me, a paralysed girl, trying to put on her own make-up.
I left hospital on October 21, 2005 – three days before my birthday. BEFORE the accident, I was a regular teenage girl, into singing, acting, fashion and make- up. I auditioned for the school musical each year and always got a good part. I loved being on stage.
Today, I mull over how parts of my life equate to my beauty routines; how we are prepping, priming, bettering and defining ourselves. In beauty terms, after the primer and foundation are applied, that’s when I start the contouring, using shade and light to redesign my face.
Contouring is a process of building on what is there and improving it. Though I will never be cured, my abilities were slowly being reshaped, my strengths redesigned.
Re-entering my world was scary, not least because Mum had had ‘the chat’ with me a few days earlier. Until then, I think I was deluded. Though I knew I’d be in a wheelchair, I thought I’d be able to manage by myself at home.
Mum explained I needed two carers every day and one at night. The thought of strangers moving me in the night and washing me every morning made me feel sick.
I’d had enough of people pulling and prodding me. I yearned for privacy. I spent the rest of the day in silence. I couldn’t imagine a life where I couldn’t grab myself a snack, or pop to the shops. I concentrated on what meant the most to me, putting on my own make-up. I HAD achieved so much. I’d fought back from the brink of death, learnt to cope with almost complete paralysis, gone to the school prom, sat my exams and started a university course. I had also seen Tim, who lost control of his car and turned it over into a ditch, leaving me trapped inside, brought to justice, even if it was only a ban for 19 months.
Then the depression came, dragging me into darkness. I stopped fighting. I was reluctant to take antidepressants, until the doctor explained the medication was for an illness, just like insulin for diabetes.
My depression gradually lifted and I found an online community of interesting people – positive thinkers and meditation teachers.
I realised I could be one of them by making my own YouTube video. It was something I could do myself on my laptop. My vision of what I could become expanded.
The first time I dared speak online was May 20, 2010. I was 20 and as I set up the laptop, the room suddenly filled with sunshine and I knew that was my cue. ‘Hi, everyone, hope you’ve all had a lovely day…’
I called it ‘Super Sunshine’, and it’s been viewed nearly 18,000 times.
Depression dragged me into darkness. I stopped fighting
Who could have known that little broadcast, shot in my student room, would be the start of everything?
I soon realised I was constantly thinking of what I would say in my next video.
When applying eye make- up, shadows are as important as highlights. Through my depression and leaving home for uni, I’d experienced life in the shadows. Those times enriched my recovery.
Then everything changed. My blog, Jordan’s Beautiful Life, went viral, becoming a bigger success than I ever imagined. This is what I’d wanted so badly; succeeding in what I love and making a difference to other people’s lives through positive thinking and make-up.
My message is: Believe in yourself, and you will achieve.
I lost everything in that crash. But with determination I smashed through life’s challenges. I’m now engaged to be married, have a new home designed around my needs, give talks and am invited to fashion events around the world.
I have even walked again – albeit using a pair of bionic legs.
And last year, I was part of a L’Oréal ad campaign alongside Helen Mirren. I couldn’t believe it when Mum saw a huge cardboard cut-out of me in Superdrug.
It took perseverance to go beyond being ‘the girl in the wheelchair’, but it was worth every hardship.
I’m not saying I wouldn’t want a cure for spinal-cord injury, but I don’t live my life in hope of it. That in itself is a huge achievement.