I became paralyzed after diving into shallow water. Afterward, I founded the first inclusive gym in my state and dedicated my life to helping others.

• Mark Raymond Jr. is a quadriplegic who uses a wheelchair after a diving accident.
• He opened an inclusive gym and wants to provide holistic support to people with disabilities.

This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Mark Raymond Jr. It has been edited for length and clarity.

On July 4, 2016, I was celebrating on a friend's boat. But I wasn't paying attention to the tide. When I dove into what had been deep water, I hit the sand bottom, broke my neck, and started to drown. Three weeks later, I woke up in the intensive care unit.

There, I learned that I had shattered my fifth vertebrate and broken my spinal cord. Doctors told me I was paralyzed and that I might never walk again. Hearing that was like a freight train hitting me, over and over.

I quickly learned about the barriers to independence

Fortunately, I have a support system that could advocate for me after my accident. My parents, grandparents, sister, and friends all stepped in to help me.

When I was discharged from the hospital, I went to six weeks of inpatient rehabilitation, where I was getting three hours of therapy a day. Six weeks might seem like a lot, but it's nothing when you're relearning basic life skills to live independently. People with quadriplegia used to get four to six months of inpatient care, but insurance companies have reduced their coverage.

I left inpatient care and had to wait to get a new therapist. I didn't have a fitness facility or support group, and there was no caregiver training for my family. That was when I became keenly aware of all these specific barriers to increasing my quality of life.

I found hope but needed to make it accessible

I searched everywhere for information that could help me regain control of my life and body. On Instagram, I found a gym that was accessible to disabled people in California. The first day that I rolled in, I saw a bunch of empty wheelchairs and people like me pushing their limits. I felt hope for the first time.

But that gym cost $100 an hour. I was able to swing that long enough to get inspired, but that's completely unattainable to the many people with disabilities who are on fixed incomes.

In college, I studied chemistry and physics. Basically, my degree was in problem-solving. I knew I had to find a solution to these challenges. And I also knew that if these problems felt daunting to me — with my education, support system, and networks — they would be even more difficult for other people without my resources.

I'm offering hope, with actions to back it up

Last year, I opened the doors to Split Second Fitness. It's the first accessible gym in Louisiana and part of my nonprofit, the Split Second Foundation. Our goal is to transform hope into action.

Fitness is often focused on getting stronger or increasing endurance. But for people with disabilities, there are therapeutic outcomes as well that can increase independence. I can now transfer myself from my chair to the floor or my bed. That makes life easier for me and my caregivers.

I've seen similar results in my clients. One person came in after a car accident that severely injured him and killed his mother. Since joining, he's enrolled in college, got an apartment, and bought a car. He's thinking about his future a lot more intentionally now.

My life isn't about who I was yesterday. It's about who I have to be tomorrow. I want to help my clients see that, too, through physical and mental-health support, vocational training, financial literacy, and housing. That begins with providing a safe, affordable, and accessible space where they can be with people who understand exactly what they're going through.

Hope is one of the most powerful forces on earth. Before you can take action you need to give people hope. That's what our community aims to do.