Resilient: Lori’s Story of Survival, Service, and the Will to Rise
What makes you a Beautiful Disaster?
I have survived and overcome 50 surgeries during my lifetime from a PTSD event. I have 2 more scheduled this year—and then I’m finally on the path to becoming the best version of myself.
Why do you identify with the Beautiful Disaster brand?
Because I have experienced every major life stressor—and I’ve overcome them all.
I am not a victim.
I am a survivor.
And I hope to inspire others to be survivors too.
My Beautiful Disaster Story
⚠️ Trigger Warning: This story contains descriptions of a traumatic workplace accident, physical injury, and PTSD.
My accident happened on August 19, 1994—one day after my 25th birthday. It was a hot Friday at noon. I had just returned from lunch at the fiberglass factory where I worked, and I was only three hours away from starting a four-day break. I had a one-year-old baby girl at home named Jessica—“Jessa.” I had taken this factory job to help support my family.
I was running the mat line fiberglass machine. The roll was nearly finished, and the new roll didn’t wrap correctly. I manually tried to feed it in—and that’s when everything changed.
My glove tip got caught. My glove tightened around my hand. I hit the first of three safety stops—it failed. I was scared but alert. My wrist was under pressure. I hit the second—it failed too.
People were running and screaming. I didn’t know it then, but the person screaming was me.
My face hit the machine, and my arm snapped. Blood splattered on my face. The bone reminded me of a tree that snaps in a windstorm. I pounded the third stop—it failed too.
My body was pulled onto the table. The mat wrapped around me. I stopped thinking about my arm and started panicking about suffocating. My skin burned from being rubbed raw. My ribs, my arms, my knuckles. There was pressure everywhere. Then, everything slowed down.
I thought of my baby Jessa.
I remember whispering, “I’m sorry, Jessa.”
I thought I was going to die.
I asked God to help me.
I slowed my breathing.
Then came the pain—the ungodly pain.
The machine was shut down. My co-workers cut me free and unwrapped me from the mandrel. I never looked at my arm. I thought it was gone. They kept talking to me, kept me awake:
“Tell us about your daughter.”
“Open your eyes.”
I told them to tell the babysitter I’d be late.
When the EMTs arrived, I saw my birthday balloons still tied to the rail. I felt hot, then freezing, then shaking. The pain made me want to rip my hair out.
I woke up in ICU to the sound of my baby girl crying. My husband was crying. I tried to lift my arm—but my right arm didn’t move. I felt nothing. I learned later that the surgeon had wanted to amputate it—but he saved it.
When I saw my arm for the first time, I was horrified. The swelling, the blisters, the incisions, the plates, the screws—it didn’t feel like mine. I couldn’t write my name. I couldn’t hold my child. I couldn’t even dress myself.
People said I had to heal. But how do you “heal” when you feel so broken?
No one talked about trauma. No one said PTSD. I cried silently at night. I replayed the moment over and over. I shook my head to try to stop the images. I felt ashamed, ugly, worthless. A burden. A mistake.
Eventually, I got help. I was diagnosed with PTSD.
As a veteran, I had pride—and I didn’t want to appear weak. But I needed help.
My baby girl was the reason I kept going.
Now, nearly 30 years later, I’ve had over 50 surgeries. I’ve been through waves of pain and recovery. My arm still bears the scars, but I no longer hide them. They’re my battle wounds—proof of survival.
PTSD never fully goes away, but I’ve gained coping tools, strength, and empathy. I’ve learned what triggers me and how to manage chaos. I no longer let people minimize my experience. I’ve heard it all: “It was just a broken arm.” No. It was not.
That day changed everything.
I lost my innocence, my confidence—but I found resilience.
I’ve since become a veteran advocate, sharing my story to help others—especially those considering suicide. I want them to know: Your best days are ahead.
What Happened for You to Turn It Around?
I’m proud to say that I’m Lori Ann McMath, a veteran of the U.S. Air Force and Pennsylvania Air National Guard, and the mother of two USAF Airmen.
I now live in Chambersburg, PA, with my dogs Finnegan and Houston. I represented Pennsylvania as a Top 10 Talent Finalist in the 2019 Ms. Veteran America competition, advocating for homeless women veterans.
I serve in leadership roles with The American Legion, including Post Chaplain, Legion Rider, and Department Vice-Chairwoman. I also continue to support the troops professionally through my work with the Department of Defense.
My story isn’t just about pain. It’s about purpose, service, and coming back stronger.
3 Things I’ve Done to Move Closer to Happiness
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I remember, ❤️
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I honor, 🙏
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I teach, 💗 — as a proud Veteran Advocate.
Once an Airman, always an Airman. Service before self. 🪖🇺🇸
What is your favorite Beautiful Disaster collection, past or present, and why?
Phoenix.
People tell me I’m a Phoenix—and they’re right.
I always overcome.
I always rise.