My Injury Story

For a really long time, I was embarrassed to talk about my struggle with injuries over the past year. Part of me felt as if I didn’t deserve to talk about it; it’s not like I’m some professional or collegiate athlete who suffered a gruesome game-day injury and is fighting their way back through rehab. Sure, I play club sports and love running, but I felt almost guilty talking about my issues when the stakes were so much higher for other people. The other part of me, I suppose, hoped that by not talking about it, maybe it would all go away. Telling other people about my issues made it so real, and I kept trying to convince myself that there was no use making a big deal over something that would likely resolve itself. I mean, don’t most things? But then days, weeks, months passed, and I still found myself in excruciating pain from the legs down. It didn’t help that walking is essentially the only source of transportation on a college campus, which I’m sure only exacerbated the issue. I found myself limping all around campus, but I still didn’t feel a sense of urgency to see a doctor until I nearly doubled over in pain and tears on the short walk to one of my morning classes. That’s when I knew that simply waiting until I was back home in a couple weeks for summer break was no longer an option.

In all honesty, it’s kind of ironic. I’ve been playing sports my entire life — from my unfortunate days as a 5-foot-nothing point guard and designated base runner in softball (hand-eye coordination left much to be desired), to half a decade of competitive, travel soccer before making the late switch to track my senior year. In sports, mental toughness is lauded as a crucial component to success. I vividly remember a scene at one of our later track meets, the GMC Championships, when my track coach looked at me and said, “It’s going to be a tight race, but if you can stay with her through the last 200 meters, then it’s just a sprint to the finish, and you can out-kick just about anyone.” She was right, of course; I’m really freaking stubborn. Luckily for me, running seems to be one of the few areas where my stubbornness is actually a good thing, a really good thing. During races, fighting through the pain comes hand-in-hand with success; unfortunately, this same mentality actually serves to hurt you in other facets of life, particularly with injuries. You fight, and fight, and fight through it, until you physically can’t, until your body won’t let you.

Mental toughness is a double-edged sword, and the same mindset that makes someone a great athlete can also make them their own worst enemy.

Fast-forward to a summer full of unsuccessful rehab, two physical therapists, and many tears of frustration, and I arrived at college no better than when I had left months prior. My physical therapist sent me an ARP machine (nerve stimulation device) to use while in my dorm, but yet again I found traditional treatment options failing to resolve my issues. Around this time, I decided to visit a sports orthopedist, who was equally perplexed by my symptoms. According to my MRI, where I was feeling pain didn’t align with where my problems actually were. My heart sank as he threw out the word “surgery,” then recommended I get a second opinion.

I was devastated. At this point, it had been 8 months since I first started feeling pain in my right ankle, a pain that now fully encompassed both legs and left me feeling absolutely hopeless. I had stress reactions in both my ankles, a tendon tear in one of my legs, and inflammation-triggered fluid surrounding the other. Every step hurt, but it was now to the point that I felt the pain while even resting — the burning, throbbing, tingling pain.

I thought things couldn’t get worse …

I’m sure you know where this is going.

Right before Christmas break, on the day of one of my final exams, I woke up with a really stiff neck and sore shoulders and back. I dismissed the pain as a result of tweaking something while lifting and resumed my focus on studying.

That is until my face started twitching. And my hands and arms started tingling.

If I was reading this from an outsider perspective, I might find the story almost comical at this point. All this time focusing on trying to fix the lower part of your body, and now this?

I visited a doctor after my exams when the symptoms didn’t go away, and (surprise!) they were again perplexed by my symptoms. I was essentially sent on a modified three-week bed rest in hopes that my body would fix itself.

Great.

Three weeks went by and I was still dealing with lingering symptoms, so I went to another doctor (no help) and a chiropractor, who laughed at my warning that the last masseuse I went to called me “abnormally tight.” If you’ve never been to a chiropractor before, it’s a very surprising experience — they literally cracked my back. And my neck. And my ankles. Repeatedly.

Amidst all of the cracks and pops, though, I did feel some of the stiffness subside in my neck, and for the first time in almost a month I felt a bit of hope towards this whirlwind of a situation. Whether or not the treatment helps long-term remains to be seen, but the chiropractor insisted that, with consistent sessions, I should be feeling much better come this time next month. I set up twice weekly appointments with the clinic near my school, and now all I can do is “wait and see,” as the cliché goes.

And so that’s where we’re at in my story.

My incredibly frustrating, humbling story.

The thing with experiences like these is that it’s really easy to focus on the negative, to ask questions like,

“Why is this happening to me?”

“What could I have done differently?”

“Why can’t things just go back to the way they were before?”

“Will the pain ever go away?”

For a long time I was scared to share these thoughts because I thought it sounded too dramatic, but now I recognize that it is scary to feel so out of control with your own body, to not have answers on things you can’t see.

I’m writing this post not because I want people to feel sorry for me — in fact, that’s a big reason I was hesitant to tell my story to begin with — but because I want other people who are going through similar experiences to know that their feelings, whatever they may be, are justified. It’s important to give yourself some time to come to terms with these emotions and to not minimize your struggles just because “other people have it worse.” (From personal experience, I’ve found that it’s a lot easier to gain perspective once you’ve given yourself time to grieve rather than simply trying to ignore your emotions.) Then you can reframe your thoughts and focus on the positive. Change,

“I wish I would have stopped sooner” to “Now I know the importance of listening to my body”

“Why isn’t my recovery going quicker?” to “My body knows what it needs, it’s amazing how it can heal when given time.”

“I feel so helpless” to “I’m going to come out of this stronger.”

It’s also so important to lean on those close to you when dealing with situations like these. Once I got over the embarrassment factor and started reaching out to my friends and family for support, I felt so much better. From connecting with people via social media (shoutout to @kylierunssmiley for tips on staying sane during recovery) to texting with friends while on bed rest (special thanks to Ari Reith for knowing exactly what to say to make me burst out laughing even on the most frustrating days), I realized how fortunate and blessed I am to have such an amazing support system and resources to help with my recovery.

I still have a ways to go before I’m back to where I want to be, and I know there will undoubtedly be more setbacks and challenges along the way. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned from this injury, it’s that I don’t have to go it alone.

I can already see myself getting ready to set out on my first run back, the giddy energy radiating from my body as I tie my shoes and step out the front door. The pavement pounding against my feet as I make my way through the familiar roads with a huge smile plastered on my sweaty face, forever grateful for every pain-free step.