My name is John Henke — many know me as “Henke #157,” and perhaps more now as part of the #HenkeStrong community. My journey over the past years has tested everything I believed about strength, hope, and the power of a community. This is my story — from the accident that nearly took everything, to where I stand now — with gratitude, struggle, and resolve.
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The Accident That Changed Everything
On the evening of December 9, 2023, during a snowmobile heat race in Beausejour, Canada, I was involved in a crash that would alter my life forever. I broke my neck at the C1 vertebra — in effect, my skull detached from my spine. In medical terms, it was called an internal decapitation. Many doctors told my family and me that survival was extremely unlikely.
Not only was the injury itself devastating, but I went into cardiac arrest twice in the immediate aftermath. After that, I underwent a long, complex surgery (about seven hours) to reattach my skull to my spine. The MRI showed that my spinal cord was intact and there was no traumatic brain damage — a silver lining in an otherwise dire situation.
Insurance didn’t cover my care in Canada, so from the beginning, the financial burden was heavy. I needed to be transferred back to the U.S. to continue care, which added complexity, cost, and uncertainty.
In those early days, I couldn’t speak. I was on ventilators, tubes, and machines that did much of what my body once took for granted. But I was conscious. I could hear voices of my parents, doctors, and friends. I could feel touch — the faintest brush of a hand on my arm, a finger on my cheek.
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Struggles, Small Victories & Healing
Every moment became a battle. I don’t think many people realize how exhausting it is just to exist when your body refuses to cooperate. To breathe, to swallow, to try to move — each of those tasks felt like scaling a mountain.
But slowly, with intensive therapy and support, I began to register tiny wins:
I responded to pain stimuli — blinking, slight movements.
Therapies were intense: speech, occupational, physical therapy (core, lower body), vision, swallowing.
At Shirley Ryan Ability Lab, I was being kept “fairly busy” (as my support team described) — not out of ambition, but because every minute in therapy counts.
Progress is not linear. Some days were heartbreaking. I’d be frustrated by the simplest immobility, the inability to communicate, or when setbacks surfaced. But I tried to remember that healing is messy and takes time.
While I was in Canada, funds raised via GoFundMe helped get me air-ambulanced back to the United States, cover medical bills there, and bridge gaps beyond what insurance would cover.
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The Power of #HenkeStrong & Community
From the moment news broke, I was overwhelmed — in the best possible way — by how many people rallied around me. Donations, messages, prayers, shares: they came from near and far. The GoFundMe campaign “Help John Henke recover from near fatal injury” raised over $74,990 from 511 donations — that’s more than I ever imagined.
Those donations were vital. They covered:
The initial air ambulance from Canada to the U.S.
Multiple hospital stays and rehabilitation costs beyond insurance limits.
Therapies, equipment, and additional care as my journey continued.
Expenses arising from having care in multiple locations.
But even more than financial support, the emotional backing was priceless — posts from racing friends, fans, family, and even strangers kept me connected to who I was before the crash. I saw messages like: “We are all pulling for you, John. Keep fighting, my friend!”
My team, Henke Motorsports, remained my anchor. They kept updates going, shared my small improvements, and kept alive the identity we built together over years. On Facebook, one update said, after two months, “they are keeping him fairly busy at Shirley Ryan, although he likes the physical work better than …”
Seeing those updates, seeing your reactions, your reposts, your prayers — it gave me strength on days when I felt like giving up.
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Where I Am Now — Still Fighting, Still Grateful
I’m not out of the woods. I still can’t speak. I still have to work hard just to do what most take for granted: breathe deeply, eat, move, communicate. But I keep pushing.
My mind stays active. I can hear. I can understand. I can feel family, doctors, the world around me. And I believe more than ever in what I have — in the engine of this spirit.
My role in the team has shifted — but it hasn’t ended. I may not be driving, but I am still Henke. My insights, my leadership, my heart remain part of our crew’s mission.
Each update I share, each message I post, reflects how thankful I am — for every dollar, for every minute of prayer, every share, every virtuous act of kindness.
I am humbled. I am honored. And I am more determined than ever to prove that what happened to me does not define me.
