Two months ago I thought I was going to be full on running by now. My progress was shooting forward and I was getting stronger and stronger. Until I wasn’t.
At the beginning of May I got hit with posterior tibial tendonitis and plantar fasciitis. The old injury was a one-two punch that knocked me out for weeks. I’m still not running, but I am finally working back towards picking up the pace on my walking again.
It didn’t help that at the end of May I sprained my ankle again. Nothing close to the severity of last time, but enough to leave me holding my ankle in tears on the sidewalk. I now fear the 28th of every month since I’ve sprained it twice now on that day. Bad omens.
Eight months. It’s hard to take in just how long it has been. Just how many times I’ve gone to PT. How many TheraBand exercises I’ve done. How many rounds of cupping my body has endured. How many times I’ve seen someone running and thought ‘one day that will be me.’
It still shocks me every time I flip through my photos and my huge smile after my half marathon finish is quickly followed by pictures of a massively swollen and bruised ankle. How did we get here?
I’m still going. I’m doing ever more PT exercises all while trying to stay motivated instead of enraged. I’m still trying to heal faster and get strong. And in so many ways, I am. My squat is probably stronger than it was before my last half, and I’m rapidly closing in on my old PR. Lifting three times a week and being able to follow a consistent program has lead to huge progress.
My physical therapist seems optimistic, despite the fact that he can’t seem to get rid of me. Last week he told me that Steph Curry and I just had really severe sprains, but we’ll be back. One heal raise at a time.