After my accident, I was thankful to be alive, surprised even, but that wasn’t the only emotion I experienced. I was also angry. Really angry. Why was I alive? Why did this happen to me? With all my technical experience and knowledge of the mountains, my skill level and expertise, why did this accident happen to me? I was at the top of my sport, the best in the world, and this happened to me?!
I was bitter. Confused. Running had made me feel whole and complete. And it had been ripped away from me in an instant, with just one small step. Why me? I couldn’t answer that question, which infuriated me even more. The potential end of my career loomed large—and it was something I was unwilling to accept or admit.
As a professional athlete, I had built a career on being capable, strong, and competent in my own body. And I excelled because I had always been such a strong-willed, “do-it-yourself” person. If I wanted to buy something I couldn’t afford, I’d get a second job (or a third), until I got what I wanted. If I didn’t get the grade I desired on a test (usually anything less than 100 percent), I’d spend more time studying until I mastered every inch of the material. That’s how I approached life, and it’s how I approached being an athlete too.
I’ve never been someone who desired the easy way out. I value hard work, and I believe that if I don’t get the outcome I want, it’s because I didn’t work hard enough. This ethic has value. It creates a sense of accomplishment after working hard to achieve a job well done—especially since I made it happen myself. But that internal validation and pride in my ability to do everything myself became an obstacle as I faced new challenges in my recovery.
Not only was I frustrated by my inability to work my way out of my current predicament, I was also upset over my loss of independence. I couldn’t do anything myself. Remember, I had broken fourteen bones: five ribs, vertebrae L4 and L5 in my back, both feet (multiple bones in each), and both bones in both of my arms. To say I was limited is an understatement. Of course, I couldn’t do everything myself; I needed help, and lots of it.
I required a constant chaperone and people to check in on me. Each morning I woke up and enjoyed the solitude for a few sweet moments as I did an assessment of my body. I looked over all my casts and cuts. Yep, I’m still injured, I’d think to myself. Then I would take a deep breath as I read the messages on my phone, preparing myself for the day to come.
Copyright © 2020 by Hillary Allen. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
