The Long, True Story about my Ankle
For my therapist, Bryan Nixon. You’re the best one there is. Thank you for encouraging me to tell my story and for walking alongside me for the last decade.
This is the truth — the truth that I have mostly kept to myself for the past 10 years.
I’m telling it now for two reasons:
Practicality — it’s starting to be a real challenge to hide it. Physically. Emotionally. The energetic toll and conversational gymnastics required to maintain a resilient exterior, to be positive, and to echo the autopilot refrain of “I’m fine” has gotten to the point where it’s heavier and harder than just telling the whole truth (even though I know that doing so might come with its own set of problems).
I know I’m not alone. I know I’m not the only one living with chronic pain. I know I’m not the only one who’s had to deal with people who think they know more about my medical condition, my pain, and my experience than I do. I know I’m not the only one who’s had to listen to spiritual bypassing bullshit about my health-related issues. So if you’re struggling with all this too, I want you to know that you’re not crazy. Or wrong. Or “negative.” Or lazy. You’re just a human being, going through some really rough stuff and doing the best that you can.
I used to say that, in some ways, I was actually grateful that I broke my ankle jumping off the Grand Haven pier when I was 17.
That I could see this beautiful thread that started on a sweltering August afternoon weaving through my life, taking me on paths that I would not have been on without that snap of my bones breaking and the cold, electric hum that followed. Like I was a tuning fork that had been struck, my entire lower leg filled with a vibrating resonance.
I’m a therapeutic bodywork practitioner because of that day.
I’m fairly certain that without the twists and turns that thread took, the ragged knots and the neat + even stitches alike, I would not have met my husband (who is the love of my life and my greatest comforter and caretaker).
But now, even with this bird’s eye view, I am struggling to be grateful.
Any silver linings slip through my fingers like water.
Being a brave, tenacious, optimistic person in the face of enormous pain and a grim AF prognosis… that is just not where I am right now.
So I find myself wanting the deep exhale that I hope comes with unvarnished honesty.
The real fall out of that August afternoon begins about ten years and four surgeries later in 2010…
I was in grad school. My most recent surgery (#4) had been, essentially, a dud. Seven years earlier (back in 2003), in her post-op chat with my parents, my surgeon for #3 had told them that I had the ankle of a 70 year-old.
I was writing a term paper for one of my anatomy + physiology classes and, thanks to a gracious professor who let me pursue something slightly off-topic, I was learning about my own condition — post-traumatic osteoarthritis of the ankle.
After working my way through a few dozen peer-reviewed journal articles, I concluded that once you’ve exhausted your less invasive options, you essentially have two choices:
A fusion in which the joint is immobilized with pins and screws so that it can calcify, (theoretically) eliminating friction-related inflammation and pain, but typically resulting in the development of significant arthritis in proximal joints (often in the foot and/or knee) within a decade or two at most.
A joint replacement in which artificial joint surfaces are implanted, often yielding greater range of motion and reduced pain but frequently only lasting 8-12 years before “failure” (which means another replacement if you’re #blessed, a fusion if you’re lucky, or — in the worst case scenario — ultimately, amputation).
Both of these options felt (and still feel) pretty terrifying to me.
Over the years, I’ve also had the pleasure of hearing various colleagues and acquaintances in the yoga and wellness communities say some absolutely HORRIFIC things about my pain, my injury, and my experiences attempting to manage and reckon with having an ankle that mostly does not work.
Some think I’m “choosing” or “holding on to” my pain.
Some think I just haven’t done the psychological and emotional work necessary to “heal” my pain on a holistic level.
Some think I’m blindly trusting my doctors without doing my own research and investigation and accepting my surgeons’ assessments as gospel when I shouldn’t be.
Some think I just haven’t tried THEIR silver bullet yet and that’s why I’m still suffering.
All of this is fairly insulting and insensitive, but — for the record — I’ve tried just about every silver bullet that I’ve heard of…
Acupuncture
Acupressure
Essential oils
Prescription meds — lots of them
Over-the-counter meds — lots of them
Herbs and supplements — lots of them
Holistic counseling
Energy healing and reiki
TENS unit
CBD — multiple applications
Dietary experiments and restrictions
Gua sha
Massage therapy
Myofascial release — three different methods
Physical therapy — multiple types/modalities + at least a half dozen rounds
Breathwork
Meditation and mindfulness
Yoga — multiple types
Homeopathics
Emotional release therapy
Cortisone injections
Orthotics and soft braces
“Conservative” surgical interventions — lots of them
Cold therapy
Not a whole lot of that stuff is working super well anymore and I’m running out of proverbial road to kick the can down. I’m getting closer and closer to needing to make a big decision of some kind.
And I am just so, so, so angry.
You’d think that I would have “processed” all of this already — for over 10 years, I’ve essentially known that a fusion or a replacement would eventually be my only real option for managing my arthritis. But I’m finding that “knowing” something and KNOWING something are two totally different things.
This anger is… hard. I am so used to projecting an odd hybrid of stoicism and cheerfulness, an attitude of “no worries, I’ve got this,” that not being able keep a lid on how I’m feeling is pretty distressing for me.
I want to break something. Bite someone. Scream and cry and rage.
Smash through our drywall like I’m the Incredible Hulk.
Lay on the floor, like a toddler in the grocery store, thrashing and kicking and flailing.
For most of my adult life, my default response to anything that felt like anger was to squash it IMMEDIATELY because being angry just didn’t feel allowed. Being angry meant that I was “bad.” In danger of losing connection, love, and belonging.
As a wellness practitioner and yoga teacher, even the tiniest flicker of anger used to trigger a flood of shame for me. Perhaps in part because our community can often feel too focused on "love and light" and positivity ("Let's all just drink green smoothies and vibe on Law of Attraction affirmations and play with crystals!") at the expense of some of the grittier, less pleasant, shadow work that needs our attention too.
I’ve gotten better at honoring my anger over the years. But only when I can use it for something “productive” — to exit a situation that’s hurting me, set clearer and healthier boundaries in a relationship, take action to realign my life with my values.
But there’s nothing to “do” with this anger — it just IS.
There’s nothing I can shift, fix, or change to pacify it. Which is really hard. And there’s nothing I can do to ease that tension or make it less awful for myself, except maybe to simply be honest and to do my best to cultivate radical acceptance instead of resistance.
So if you’re angry too (or in tremendous pain or consumed with grief or more terrified than you’ve ever been before or in deep despair), I’m here. I see you. This is the messy agony of being human. And it’s just as real and valid as the exquisite beauty, pleasure, delight, and triumph that are part of life too.
Don’t push it away.
You’re not alone.
We’re in it together.
PS. Because I know that some clients and students may be concerned about the impact my injury could have on our ability to work together now or in the future — you can trust that I know my limits well. I take great care to schedule individual sessions and classes mindfully; in a way that is sustainable for me and that allows me to work with you effectively and at my full capacity.