It’s been six weeks since I destroyed my ankle (and much of my ability to have fun). For the first four I counted every damn day thinking that would somehow get me closer to being normal again.
When the doctor told me I would be out for 4-6 weeks, I mentally announced “I’ll be back in three.”
The further into recovery I got, the more messed up everyone realized my ankle was. I didn’t just sprain one tendon, I did multiple. Ligaments? Got those too. High ankle sprain? Why of course. My physical therapist has been struggling to find a tendon/ligament/muscle attached to my ankle that I didn’t hurt. I’m nothing if not thorough.
I cried at four weeks when I got brave enough to ask when I would run (maybe 8-10 weeks after injury). On the drive home it sunk in that I wasn’t going to be running my half in February. I had to tell my boyfriend the half I (kindly) convinced him to sign up for as his first would also be the first one he would run alone.
Two weeks later, I don’t feel guilty anymore about something so far out of my control. I don’t feel pressured to run RIGHT NOW. It doesn’t matter when I can run anymore. I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
My fitness is gone. Looooong gone. And it took with it more than five pounds of muscle that I wish I still had.
But that’s okay. It means I will start again. I will build my base – stronger than last time. I will likely get a running coach (when I can do the whole running thing again), and start a six month plan to a goal race in July.
And I’m really excited about that! No pressure, lots of time. Lots of help. Lots of love.