By Joshua Kolsrud | Point of View
In the blink of an eye, everything can change. For me, that moment came on a February night in 2002, when an ordinary evening spiraled into chaos.
The Mardi Gras celebration in Tempe, had been vibrant—laughter, drinks, and the buzz of life all around. But as I walked outside, my world collided violently with a stranger’s rage. A careless bump, a few words exchanged, and then the flash of a blade.
As I lay bleeding on the cold ground, one thought cycled through my mind, absurd in its persistence: “My parents are going to kill me.” It wasn’t the fear of death that gripped me, but the strange certainty that I would survive and have to explain myself. Somehow, in that ridiculous worry, was the first glimmer of hope—I was going to live.
What followed was a trial of mind, body and spirit. Eighteen surgeries. Skin grafts. Nerve transplants. An unrelenting regimen of recovery, where pain was a constant companion. But the loss of function in my left arm was not the only thing I had to learn to live with. In the aftermath, my identity unraveled. Who I had been—invincible, unshakable—was gone, and in his place was someone I didn’t yet know. The boy who had believed he could take on the world had been humbled, his path suddenly uncertain.
In those early days, I clung to the only thing I could—goals. Small promises I made to myself to keep the pain at bay. Finish college. Graduate summa cum laude. Get into law school. Each task felt monumental in the shadow of my disability, but they became my anchors, keeping me from being swept away by despair.
Looking back, I see both bravery and naivety in that younger version of myself. I thought I could will my way through the pain, pretend the injury hadn’t fundamentally altered me. But growth doesn’t come from ignoring reality; it comes from confronting it. Over time, I realized that my journey wasn’t just about overcoming physical limitations. It was about learning to live differently, seeing the world through a new lens, and becoming someone stronger.
For years, I resisted acknowledging how profoundly I had been changed. I convinced myself that sheer will could conquer the pain, that I could carry on as though nothing had shifted. But eventually, reality set in. My disability forced me to pause, to reflect on the fragility of life in a way I never had before. It opened my eyes to a well of empathy I hadn’t known existed—an understanding of suffering that nothing else could have taught me.
Before the attack, I moved through life with ease, content to accept whatever came my way, rarely looking beyond the immediacy of the present. I felt invincible, convinced that I was in control of my future. But the attack shattered that illusion. I found myself asking questions I had never considered: Why had this happened to me? What was the lesson in all of this suffering? Over time, I came to realize that my journey wasn’t about overcoming physical hardship—it was about transforming how I saw the world and my place within it.
Ted Campagnolo, the prosecutor who took on my case, became the light that guided me through that transformation. He was everything I aspired to be—sharp, relentless, driven by a fierce sense of justice. My attacker had hired the most expensive defense lawyer in Arizona, but Ted dismantled their case with precision and conviction. For three long hours, I sat on the witness stand, reliving the most terrifying night of my life, while Ted fought for the truth. When the verdict was finally delivered—guilty on all counts—I knew I wanted to stand where Ted stood. As the man who tried to destroy me was sentenced to 12.5 years in prison, I realized I wanted to be the one fighting for justice.
I followed in Ted’s footsteps, beginning my career at the Maricopa County Attorney’s Office, the same office where Ted had worked. Over the next 14 years, I threw myself into the role, fighting for victims just as Ted had fought for me. My journey led me from Arizona to the South Pacific, where I helped rescue hundreds of Filipino girls from the horrors of human sex trafficking in Palau. It took me to the Coconino County Attorney’s Office, where I handled high-profile cases involving the most heinous crimes—sex offenses, homicides, white-collar fraud. And finally, I reached the pinnacle of my prosecutorial career at the U.S. Attorney’s Office, taking on some of the most complex criminal cases and bringing justice to those who needed it most.
But as the years passed, a restlessness began to stir within me. It wasn’t that I had lost my passion for justice; rather, I felt a pull toward something new, something more. I wanted to challenge myself again—not just as an attorney, but as a person. I shifted to criminal defense, not because my beliefs had changed, but because I wanted to see the other side. I wanted to grow, to expand my understanding of the law, and to ensure that everyone, no matter their past, had a competent defense. This new path tested me in ways I hadn’t anticipated, but it also broadened my empathy and deepened my resolve to fight for those in need.
Living with a paralyzed left arm has been one of the greatest obstacles of my legal career. Though I rely on voice recognition software to get through my workload, most of my time is spent typing with one hand. Simple tasks—carrying files, shuffling papers in the courtroom—become cumbersome in ways I never imagined before the injury. I’ve adapted over the years, learning to manage these logistical hurdles. But what I can’t control is how others perceive my disability, particularly juries. I’m always aware of their eyes on me, curious, perhaps wondering how it will affect my performance as a lawyer.
To ease the tension, I’ve adopted a simple strategy—humor. During the jury selection process, when potential jurors are sizing me up, I break the ice with a joke. “Ladies and gentlemen,” I say with a grin, “my left arm is paralyzed. So, if you were expecting back flips and cartwheels, you’ll be sorely disappointed.” Laughter ripples through the courtroom, the unease dissolves, and we move forward.
But beneath the jokes, my disability has shaped me in far deeper ways. It’s not just the physical adjustments I’ve had to make—it’s the emotional and philosophical shifts that came with it. After the attack, I developed a new understanding of struggle, a profound empathy for those who face battles unseen. It opened my eyes to the quiet strength that exists in the face of adversity, both inside and outside the courtroom. More than that, it set me on a spiritual path I never could have foreseen. The injury, which might have hardened me, instead became a catalyst for growth—a journey not just of survival, but of transformation.
Buddhism found me shortly after my attack. A friend handed me the Dalai Lama-inspired, The Art of Happiness, and I devoured it, intrigued by the idea that inner peace could be cultivated through mindfulness and compassion. But my true spiritual awakening didn’t come from a book—it came from my travels to Cambodia. There, among people who had little in the way of material wealth, I encountered the purest form of happiness I had ever seen. The Cambodian people, despite their poverty, radiated joy, contentment, and an unshakable inner peace.
I wanted what they had.
I soon discovered that the foundation of their happiness lay in Buddhism and meditation. They weren’t happy because life was easy or because they had more than they needed—they were happy because they had learned to let go, to live mindfully, and to cultivate compassion for themselves and others. Buddhism transformed me in ways I never expected. It taught me that we are responsible for our own choices and, ultimately, our own happiness. It provided me with a new lens through which to view my suffering—not as a burden, but as an opportunity for growth.
Part of that growth has been learning to adapt—both in life and in my career. Living with a paralyzed left arm has been one of my greatest challenges. I’ve had to figure out how to do things I once took for granted—tying my shoes, a tie, even fishing. I taught myself how to play video games and pool with one hand, constantly adapting and learning. But there are still things I’m figuring out. Each day presents a new challenge, and while meditation has helped me manage the chronic nerve pain that courses through my arm, the pain is always there. It’s a part of me, but it doesn’t define me.
Editor’s Note: Josh Kolsrud is a federal criminal defense attorney at Kolsrud Law Offices, which is based in Phoenix
