I was devastated. The kind of devastation when you don’t even realize you’re expecting good news and are so blindsided by the polar opposite that your normal processing capacity vanishes in an instant. The kind of shock that leaves you wondering if you’re awake and heard correctly, or if it’s all the dream.
And then I shut it down. I went back to work. I swallowed my tears begging to fall down my cheeks and went to work. I was controlling the controllable: rescheduling meetings, emailing people to help manage their expectations, informing others counting on me that I would not be available, scheduling the PTO I had just told my dad I hoped to use between Christmas and New Year’s after smashing my yearly goals and readying myself for back to back calls and proposals.
Then the shame came. The fundamental idea that I did something wrong and I was to blame. The begging darkness that suggested that I wasn’t good enough to heal on my own. The questions came, both inwardly and outwardly, and the sadness that my superwoman cape wasn’t flying above me. The thought that one fracture was already gone in 2 weeks, while the other shifted so far out of place that I’d be under the knife in less than a week to fix it. The old insecure surveying routine erupted, desperate for validation that I was going to be OK, that this was not my fault and that shit happens sometimes and we just can’t control any of it.
And then, perspective: even if my single fall, aggressive hopping around to let Bam outside and get myself from room to room, my slow ROM prescribed early on by my PT to reduce the swelling did shift the bone, a bone so easily shifted by doing what I had to do is not stable enough for my future wants and goals. A bone so easily shifted by itself is not going to be the bone I’ve come to respect over the years of stomping on it without a plate to secure it. And even if I did do it, however that’s even possible, it would never change the outcome or the need to move forward with major surgery.
Acceptance: there was a time not that long ago when news like this would have shattered me. I remember sitting in the neurologists’ office after my last concussion a decade ago, completely immune to the news that my only faculty that could really propel me through life was at risk if I didn’t sit the fuck down. I remember so vividly being gripped with terror that my body would turn to shit, and I’d be fat, losing all of the external magic I had worked so hard to have (by starving myself and exercising to death). I didn’t care that I might not regain my memory, short or long. I didn’t care that I might not be able to form congruent sentences or do simple math again (once upon a time math was fairly easy for me, regardless of how complicated). I didn’t care that I might not be able to resurface normally. I only cared about what I looked like.
But today? I do care about what happens to the rest of me. I care about my body, the soundness and longevity of it. I care about my health, and its ability to carry me through my life. I care about my purpose in this world, and that I will be remembered for how I made people feel than for how I continued crushing fitness pursuits. I care about how I show up and if I can without thinking about myself all of the time. I care about my ability to serve. I care about being a full hearted, souled and bodied woman; not just a body that is only worthy if it takes up less and less space. I’m unattached to the idea that Tahoe was my one hit wonder, because I know deep down that everything is so temporary, good and bad, that wasting energy worrying about it only takes away from the experience I can be having right now. I honestly don’t care if I can’t run for six more months (I say that now and ask me in 3 more weeks and I may feel very differently), because I know a plan will present itself that I am not privy to seeing just yet. I trust that all of the experiences that have gotten me this far, will continue to take me where I want to go.
Yes, I miss running. I miss pouring every ounce of attention I have into the physical task at hand. I miss connecting to every moving part of my body, sending my intention to the moment and watching how it changes with each step. I miss feeling so unwinded by almost all activities, and frankly am so grateful I was so fit and strong when this happened that crutches and hopping and carrying myself around on one leg has been far less taxing than I imagine it would have been if I wasn’t in good shape. (Because it is still extremely taxing). Surprisingly though, there have also been some things that I don’t miss. I don’t miss the commitment training for big things requires. I don’t miss the time it takes me away from the people I love, and Bam. I don’t miss the sense of urgency I always had sitting on my shoulders, knowing that I had a big block of training to do and the meeting better end on time or else I’d be cutting it close. I don’t miss having to go to bed at 745 in order to get the sleep I need to perform the way I want and having to balance my days so delicately in order to successfully get it all in. I don’t miss the Saturday’s I couldn’t go support a friend at a local event because I had to run in the woods for half of the day. I don’t miss being so tired, which I didn’t even realize I was.
I am sure I will miss it, because there is something to be said for working toward something you want so badly and being able to put in the work to get you there. But I also appreciate the immediate shift in perspective this is giving me. I am not fitness any more. I am not my aesthetic body. I am not my trophies. I am not my mile times. I am not my weekly mileage.
I’ve seen my ego here, too. I have had to cancel two big speaking engagements now that I was genuinely wanting to attend. I love speaking, I love talking about myself (obviously) and sharing my experience with others. I love drawing a crowd and I love hearing praise and sharing so passionately that yes, it can be different for you too. It’s not all ego, but there’s a bit. The old me would’ve kept those commitments not only because I made them, but because I wouldn’t be invested in taking care of my quiet self and my needs. I can speak at another time, or I can just write. And what I’ve realized, slowly, is that I don’t write because I need praise; I write because it helps me discover myself and what I actually do need. It gives me energy. It gives me passion. It gives me purpose.
I saw ego in my winter off season program because I knew come January when I’d walk stage at our annual sales convention, that I’d be lean as hell. I was focused on making a physical impression because I was narrowminded into thinking that my body as it is isn’t enough. I forgot that my person is what walks me across stage, not my abs and lean legs. I forgot that my body already is perfect exactly as she is, and I can dress her in a way that makes me feel phenomenal and knock it out of the park, hopefully without an ankle boot to sport along the way. Who knows what the next few months will lend me physically – I know I’m continually surprised at how my life unfolds, and there’s no reason this would be any different.
And there it is: the prevailing lesson everyone assumed I’d be learning by breaking my ankle in the first place. The lesson that I am OK, exactly as I am, exactly where I am, right here and now. The lesson that I am so much more than my fitness and physical work capacity. The lesson that I am an amazing woman who shows up in all of her affairs today, broken ankle or not. The lesson that I can ask for help today and accept it. The lesson that I can take it easy and slow down. The lesson that I am beyond blessed with the most incredible support system. The lesson that my professional life is incredibly fulfilling and gratifying, both financially and mentally, and something I can do from home. I am good at what I do, and I feel empowered teaching others how to do it now too.
The lesson that after all of these years, I can’t wait to spend my post-surgery time with my parents, in their home, recovering. I can’t wait to hang out with my mom, enabling her to feel useful as she continues to lose everything she’s ever known. I can’t wait hang out with my dad, seeing his smile and laughter and playing middleman when my mom rises to her stubborn self. I can’t wait to use the chair lift up the stairs instead of hopping and crawling on my hands and knees. I can’t wait to stay and just be their daughter and let them show up for me. Yes, I want Mike with me, and he will be, but right now I want to be totally unarmed. And my parents’ home is where I can be that.
It takes what it takes, but I denied both myself and them that privilege for so long, and it’s finally time to stop.