My husband and I love sports documentaries, which is a weird quirk for people who don’t love sports. We’ve watched docuseries about boxing, golf, basketball, tennis, cycling, even “Hard Knocks” seasons following teams we don’t root for. Doug will tell you they resonate because he’s always been an athlete (he played varsity volleyball in high school, smh). But apart from our common love for college football and my renewed commitment to the Philadelphia Eagles, this affinity of ours doesn’t track on the surface.
Personally, I was never good at any sport. I played a couple growing up, but no one ever used the word “athletic” and my name in the same sentence. I found my athleticism late, taking up running during the pandemic and tennis soon thereafter, which gave me the confidence to try almost anything now. I am stronger at 37 than I was at 27, or 17, which I’m incredibly proud of.
I’ve come to realize that the common themes drawing me to sports documentaries are the athletes’ technical focus on their craft at the highest level; their relentless competitive nature; and their stories of redemption. When people count them out, they find a way back. Their successes are the lessons that inspire our everyday lives.
But I wasn’t expecting to apply them in my real life right now.
On July 4th, my friend invited me to play doubles tennis down the shore. Within fifteen minutes of taking the court, I lunged a little too far right for a forearm shot and felt my right ankle pop and collapse under my leg. Laid out and mortified, I knew right away something was wrong. Turns out, I sustained a high-ankle sprain and earned myself a pair of crutches, a walking boot, and a foot that looked more like a brioche bun.
I don’t think I appreciated the gravity of the situation for at least a couple of days. I was just in pain, afraid to move, and couldn’t think beyond that. Reality set in, though. This wasn’t going to be a five-day *down but not out* situation, like a *bad summer cold but we’ll see you at the pool next weekend* situation. This injury impacted every element of my life. I couldn’t bear weight on my right leg. I couldn’t drive. I had to crawl up the stairs on my hands and knees. Going to the bathroom, getting dressed, doing my hair all took an extreme toll on my energy. I couldn’t meet my own needs, let alone, my kids’ needs: laundry, cooking, bathing, entertaining. I was down bad on the injured list and not sure when I’d recover.
When I realized what a significant impediment this all was, I sunk pretty low and manifested that frustration in a bunch of ways. I don’t feel guilty about that—even our favorite athletes show their humanity when sidelined. Our summer was just kicking off, we were gaining momentum on some new projects, my tennis skills were just starting to click. It’s upsetting as hell. Representing otherwise would be fake display of positivity.
And yet, I am someone who believes in a modicum of fate. We can’t control everything that happens to us, but we can control how we react.
Maybe I’ve watched countless hours of sports documentaries for a reason, and it is time to put all those lessons to work.
First, I refuse to abandon physical movement and my pursuit of living a healthy life. Even when I couldn’t bear weight, I worked my arms and core constantly through seated weight lifting and modified Pilates. I’ve cleaned up my diet to offset the lack of cardiovascular activity, which sucks but feels like it sucks less than the alternative. I just got cleared for physical therapy and light cardio and am viewing this as an opportunity to find new activities I might enjoy, like swimming or rowing. We’ll see where it goes.
Second, I’m listening to my body more. I’m pushing my limits but not hesitating to cancel plans. Just last weekend, I won Mom of the Year for traversing the chaos of a The Kidz Bop Live Tour on crutches and hopping around sleepaway camps in rural Pennsylvania for my daughter. Maybe I don’t need to host friends for a dinner party, but I can cook the family dinner when I’m feeling up for it, because it’s important to me. It’s almost ironic that I called for a summer of casual connections, because that’s what I’m getting now. Life imposed the limits that I’m not great at imposing on myself.
Lastly, I’m not only asking for help but learning to be grateful for whatever help I get. This lesson is the most difficult, because I tend to internalize guilt over being indebted to anyone. I am also quite particular about how I like things done, but when you don’t have a choice, you have to humble yourself and get over your tiny hang-ups. Thank you to my friends for driving me everywhere, my girls for being patient and caring, my mom for doing the girls’ laundry and grandma-ing extra hard, and my husband for being double the parent all month long.
As I heal a bit more every day, I am starting to feel growth in what is objectively a setback. My competitive spirit would allow nothing less. I may never be an athlete, but my redemption story will tell like one. Maybe through it all, I’ll inspire someone, too.
The little things
A bit more about said Kidz Bop concert. Last Friday, I took my daughter to her first real concert along with one of my closest friends and her daughters. The night was a bright moment in my dull July, and the girls had a fantastic time. She is growing up before my eyes, and not even a loaf foot will keep me from enjoying moments like this.
Also
I cried:
When I saw my Pop-Pop’s famous photo drinking from the Stanley Cup atop my essay in Philadelphia’s Broad Street Review. If you missed the earlier iteration in this newsletter, please read, share, and bring the tissues.
I read:
On losing my edge – Boundless by Paul Millerd
How to keep your CSA produce from rotting in your refrigerator – Vox
We’re About To Find Out What We Really Know About UFOs – Slate
How Your House Makes You Miserable – Culture Study
Your wins
Every once in a while, I claim the win for myself. Because I graduated from a walking boot to an ankle brace and can finally drive again, I think I deserve it.