The last thing I thought about receiving from my broken leg and surgery was self-compassion, self-respect, and unconditional self-love.
I have to write out “surgery” because it created a very different scenery than just a break. Not that breaking your leg, or any other part of your body isn’t enough, but I have to say that undergoing the knife, going under anesthesia, being on pain meds sober and having a cast on for a couple of weeks was very different than being booted and told to chill. It also reminds me that this is a process, not linear, and that there is a reason for a training prescription with a professional who knows a lot more than I do about bones and their recovery.
Now 6 months almost exactly post-surgery, I am so fucking grateful for this experience that isn’t over yet. I was off of my right leg for 2 months from accident date (Halloween) to walking boot, and then in my walking boot for 1 month. That’s 3 months of no driving, no real weight bearing on my right leg and 3 months without physical work.
I recount all of this because I had grossly underestimated the loss of strength, mobility and muscle endurance I’d have in that time. I grossly underestimated how amazing the foot is, how many muscles are there and really how much work my legs do for me just walking me around. For all the years I spent shitting on how I think my legs look, I can tell you there’s a stark difference in density when you haven’t used one in months. I remember biking one day in my boot and wiping my hand on my left leg and being pleasantly surprised to feel a normally “hard” left leg. I then did the same with my right and my god, it was soft as a pillow. I couldn’t believe it! They looked very similar minus a bit more noticeable softness on my backside, but they were the same size and feel in pants and tights.
And then we started running, on the road, one minute at a time. I smirked seeing the original templated program but let me tell you, that minute was all I could handle. My foot was so weak I prayed I wouldn’t have to hop over a twig in my way because I didn’t think I’d gain enough clearance to do so successfully. It took months, but we slowly built up so that eventually I wasn’t really walking at all in between running segments. We then worked on adding in more running days per week, more total time on feet with walks and hikes, slowly baking in some threshold work and varying aerobic prescriptions and eventually I found myself back on the trail.
I am not historically a road runner. In the past, it hurt to run on the concrete. It was always a treat to clock off better splits and get further in mileage, but it never did for my soul what a winding wooded trail with streams and rocks and roots did. But the road doesn’t ask my ankle to bend and flex like a trail does. It took until very recently to stop staring at the ground even while running on the road to avoid ever possibly tripping over a crack or a bump or a stick or my imagination. It took until the last 2 weeks to feel OK turning more normally around a corner instead of swinging wide. It took until this past week, months into running and consequent weeks into 30-35 miles per week, to feel OK actually really running downhill. I cried the first time on the trail in both sheer fear and gratitude for the experience, and for not falling or tripping or getting hurt. I still can’t run on the trail every run, but I’m getting there.
I have not once judged my resistance to running hard or fast. I have not once judged my resistance to turning sharply or bounding through streams or risking mud or wet ground. I have not once judged how long it has taken to be comfortable on my feet, or why some days the opposing side of my shin hurts from where the plate in my ankle is. I have not once judged how long it’s taking for my right leg to feel as dense as my left. I have not once judged why I can’t just run the trail every day and still have to mix and match with the road.
I have not once judged how fast I can or cannot run, even when I see some blazing white cheetahs fly by me while I shuffle my way back to my aerobic zone. (It helps to know I won an ultra last year and I just keep that little baby in my back pocket when I need a pep talk at how painfully slow it seems I am going). I have not once judged why I feel like shit after a lower carb day and instead questioned my fitness like I used to do. I have not once condemned myself to pushing harder than I had to give, or to ditching the plan as has been outlined for me. I have not once not followed directions, written clearly for me and not against me. I have questioned what is taking “so long” to layer in hill repeats and trail runs and mileage but respected this process and the so reasonable rationale as to why you treat a surgically treated ankle with time and respect.
I broke my fucking leg and had surgery six months ago. And today I wore that proudly. I smiled and giggled the entire time I ran in Patapsco and congratulated myself on the surge in confidence I felt leaping over logs and climbing onto piles that I’d usually stop to cross or find a way around. I sloshed through streams, even banked my ankle when I missed a rock and was totally OK, when I’d normally slow to a walk and find my safest route and pick up on the other side. I didn’t plan to run confidently today – it just happened. I didn’t plan to bomb downhill or through water – it just happened. I didn’t plan to slay up and down and around – it just happened. And it happened because I’ve been taking care of myself, regardless of how I feel when I wake up or in the moment when it’s “happening”.
I am so grateful that I have taken care of myself, because it’s moving this process ahead faster. I am so fucking proud of myself for letting this teach me something, to sticking with it and taking the lessons with me instead of bypassing them and rushing forward into nowhere which inevitably slows us down and spits us out later anyway. I am so eternally joy filled that I am learning to move in a way that brings me genuine happiness, instead of slaving away in front of a gym mirror (when we’re able) in order to look a certain way. I am so sincerely proud that when my pull-ups declined over the last couple of weeks, that I didn’t freak out like I used to and instead let my coach know that my body works better with more work. OK! So we make an adjustment and let it rebuild on its own, which it always does.
I am so grateful that this injury, like all injuries I have ever experienced, teach me more about my life and about God and about the people around me than it does the bone I broke or the head I hit or the pause it required me to take. I found purpose again, and it had nothing to do with my body. I found connection again with the people in my life and wanting to spend time with them and let them near me, and it’s not because we did some crazy race together (although that definitely still works for me and is coming soon). I restored a want to move and challenge myself physically, instead of a desperate need for fear of not looking a certain way. Hell, in full transparency, I really don’t care if I ever race again -racing is no longer how I need to prove my worth. I love having goals and people to go with me, but I don’t need to do it.
I don’t think you have to break your leg and have surgery to start being kinder to yourself, but if you do, I hope you use it to teach you that you are worth more than you ever thought. I hope you use it to teach you that you are fiercer, stronger, more resilient and more incredible than anyone can tell you is true. I hope you use it to rebuild yourself into a person you didn’t know you could be.
Because that’s what’s happened for me. Physical abilities aside, I know I am worth every bit of love, respect, compassion, praise and success God has coming or me. And I choose to believe there’s a lot on its way. Do you believe that for you?