The beauty of broken bones

On June 6, 2022, my life changed drastically, forever.

It was less than a year after we moved from our NH horse farm to an equine community in FL, where we hoped to put down roots in retirement and reap the rewards of years of hard work. We planned to spend time having fun, which for me meant riding my horses. And although my own horses didn’t work out for that plan, I had found a fabulous horse to lease.

A couple of months into the lease, I was having a blast, settling into a routine and getting back into trail riding —a passion I had since a young age. I’d only sporadically been able to enjoy riding in NH, due to the demands life threw at me. The move to FL proved challenging, but riding freed me from the unanticipated stress and disappointment I was experiencing.

That particular night, I was feeling drained and tired. Dark storm clouds threatened the skies, but far enough away that we weren't concerned. Off we went to the trails, which, no matter what, was always a good idea.

I had a slight inkling that felt off, but there were external matters brewing, so I chalked it up to some unfortunate happenings in my life at the time.

"You'll end up in the ER, but you'll be fine," I heard in my head. It had a calm, almost sarcastically humorous tone to it. I brushed it off as the nervous voice of my mom, long since passed, but whose anxieties I had inherited - begrudgingly. I settled into the soft, squeaky saddle on the magnificent horse I was falling in love with, ready to ride off into the sunset.

Twenty minutes in, three strides into a canter, and the big boy I was riding took a couple of missteps. He’d done that before, and I had easily pulled him out of it with strong rein work. But this time, he began to go down.

There was no place for me to go but down with him. As he lurched forward, I was thrown off balance, thrusted towards his shoulder.  In my mind, I thought stay loose and roll, you’ll be fine, but the dirt met me harshly. There was a jarring thud. I landed just past the base of my neck, on my shoulder blade. A snapping burst all along the right side of my body.

The big horse stood over me, chewing on his bit, a tad dazed, but upright, and looking down at me - puzzled. He had gone down to his knees, and luckily, did not land on me.

I got to my feet, which felt like a ninja move thanks to adrenaline, and started attempting to walk it off. Pain shot everywhere, and I couldn't breathe.

My riding partner called my husband, and I started walking. My breath was labored - it was nearly impossible to take in air. Every step sent knife-sharp pain through my body.

I heard his voice in the distance and was relieved to have his arm to lean on as we continued through the woods to where our truck was parked.

Off to the ER we went.

I thought about the voice I had assumed was my mom's. It lacked her nervous tone and instead had an assured quality, which made no sense to me.

Every bump shot through my body. I could barely breathe or move without ripping pain, and when we arrived at the ER, the staff took one look and rushed me into a room.

I remember my body shaking uncontrollably. I remember struggling for every breath. I remember the very kind nurses and doctors, as well as the ambulance ride to the trauma hospital.

Breathing hurt. Moving hurt. It was the worst pain I’d ever felt. Hurts-to-just-lay-here pain. Just-make-it-stop pain.

I was scared.

Four broken ribs. Punctured lungs. Bruised liver. Dangerously low potassium. Fractured spine. Whiplash. Possible head trauma. There was something about my spleen—crazy stuff.

Four days later, I was sent home to start a long road to recovery.

It could’ve been SO much worse.

For the first few weeks, I was humbled by the people who flocked to offer words of support, food, texts, cards, and phone calls—expressions of concern and love. Most of them were people I barely knew in this new place we had moved to. Many were fellow horse people. It was the best part of an awful experience.

Our house suddenly looked like an old person lived there. A stool stood in the shower, a walker in the living room, two canes placed strategically, and a guard on the side of my bed. The plastic tube I breathed into became a daily highlight. Each week, I strived to get the red tab-like thingy to hit higher than the week before. Occupational therapy came to the house and helped me stand on my own, move each leg independently, and eventually use the step to go in and out of the pool, allowing me to walk along the edge after I had mastered walking in the house alone.

Oof.

Those baby steps helped me to eventually breathe without pain. With time, I began to walk unassisted, get in and out of bed independently, and realize that a new life was waiting for me on the other side of the accident.

Dark emotional “stuff” came with the injuries. The darkness threatened to suck the life out of me at times. It messed with my head, distorted reality, and taunted me. I feared that if I went too deep into that gloom, I'd never return.

Harsh realities piggybacked on the emotional stress. People I expected to rally around me didn't, and phone calls I longed for never came, which hurt my heart.

Then came the whys. And let me tell you, whys are the worst. Wrestling the whys was like being stuck in quicksand, getting sucked down into dark crevices with every dismal thought.

After years of work and struggle, to then find such a great place to “ride out my years,” why would this have happened?

Why did such a horrible thing occur?

Why do I have to endure this?

Why did this happen to me?

Why me? Why now? Why this? Why, why, why…..

And then came the “What Nows?”

Those were met with heavy silence.

It was a long, arduous, challenging season.

But here's the thing.

Time passed. I slowly got better. I watched Springsteen videos to fuel my soul (that man has a way with words). I paid attention to birds, plants, skies, and swaying trees. I loved on my dogs and let them love on me. I cherished the sound of voices on the phone of people I loved. I let my hubby take care of my needs and appreciated his love and concern. I let the sun beat on my face and skin. I enjoyed the caress of soft winds. I felt blessed to inhale the air around me.

Smells, sounds, sights, and soft, tangible treats soothed me along the path of healing. I relished small improvements. I found hope.

It was a tough journey.

However, despite the difficulties, it was also filled with beauty.

The following February, I began walking without any apparatus to keep me stable. I could push myself without having to stop and catch my breath. That April, the distracting fear of losing my balance was gone. A year later, I finally felt like I was at a brand-new starting gate, able to go the distance I saw ahead of me, albeit thirty pounds heavier, with stiffer joints, and less stamina and strength. But with determination, though softer and gentler than my old self.

The dark times were hard, but that’s ok. Because new things were waiting. I saw that every day truly is a new opportunity.

Every single day.

Every day there is joy to be found, laughter to be enjoyed, and love to be shared. Every experience, be it good or bad, can enhance your life.

You have to make some hard choices. Choices that may not always reflect how you feel. What to focus on, what to build, what to let go of, where your efforts deserve to go - it is not always easy to make the right choice, especially when we are looking for comfort right here, right now. Our patience gets tested, but it is in the testing that it is strengthened.

In an instant, things can change, and instances will come. Changes will come. Who you become depends only on you. Be glad you are here and get to make choices.

One big surprise during my downtime and dark spaces was that I found my way back to my faith. It happened in a very subtle, understated way.

I stumbled upon a TV show called The Chosen that fanned the flames of my childhood interest in Jesus and the Bible stories I heard growing up.

I always had one foot in the religious ring. But now, after countless hours of research, reading, studying, and delving into religious topics, I have come to know God differently —tangibly. Immersing myself in faith is the foundation for my footing and the most reliable tool I have to help me navigate life.

It is what introduced me to unending hope.

The lessons I learned during that difficult time are tremendous. My life has been altered in the most positive ways:

I’ve learned I can get through anything, no matter how painful.

I can smile despite crummy circumstances.

There are always people who care and want to help you, even if it’s not who you think.

The people who make time are worth yours.

There is always something, every moment, to be thankful for.

Always.

Even if it’s the sound of birds singing, the warmth of your pup lying next to you, or your husband coming through the door with groceries. Little things are big things, and they add up.

I’ve learned life is often not fair, and there is no making sense of it. 

I’ve learned that things end.

Dreams. Activities. Abilities. Relationships. Being able to get up and down off the floor swiftly.

Maybe some dreams come back. Maybe they don't.

Some of that is up to you to decide. Whatever you decide, if it brings you peace, then it’s alright. You do you and do the best you that you can do.

Endings are part of life. Life will end one day. Time is so very precious. It’s not to be wasted, disrespected, or devalued.

Time and life are our most precious commodities.

I’ve learned to be kind.

To yourself. To others. To people who care. To people who don’t. But most importantly, to yourself. First and foremost.

Don’t beat yourself up, even at your worst. If you find something in you that’s not true, admit it, and do better. Take care of yourself. Do what is good for you. Beating yourself up is not on that list.

Be honest with yourself - about the good, the bad, and the ugly. Especially the ugly inside you that is hurting you. Let that stuff go. Forgive yourself for whatever you have to. Then, do better and move on.

Give your body what it needs. Give your head what it needs. Fill your life with simplicity that makes you smile, brings you joy, enhances, and fulfills YOU.

Pay attention to what triggers you negatively. Figure it out, do the work. No one deserves negativity that sucks the good out of them. Negativity will always come. But figure out how to let it go.

Always. Let. It. Go.

Accept yourself and learn to love YOU. I love that saying: “everywhere you go, there you are.” You’ve come a long way. You’ve been through a lot with yourself. You are good. You are deserving.

There are lessons in the ups AND downs. Lessons matter. They shape you. They change you. Regardless of anything else, you matter and are worth the fight to get back to your journey.

YOU MATTER!!

It took breaking bones to make me see this in a way that no longer causes me angst. It’s just how life is. And I have peace with all of it, thanks to hitting the ground that day.

Being laid up forces you to spend a lot of time with yourself. Seeing yourself honestly helps you weed out the garden of good and bad. What you are left with is the authenticity you were born with. Don’t just accept yourself. Embrace yourself. Figure out how to love yourself and offer your best self to those who love you, too.

I’ve come a long way since those days on the couch. It’s great to feel good. I’m back to being active, working on my strength, losing weight, and reconnecting with all that’s around me. It's nice to engage with this beautiful world again.

People ask if I’ll ever ride again. I don’t know. Maybe. I think I want to. The dream is still in there. But for now, it's in the background. Horses will always be in my blood. But these days, I’m listening to the quieter messages my mind and body are telling me.

This is a new chapter, a new season. I am taking the lessons I've learned, the things the darkness has shown me, and my fortified faith with me into the future, boldly.

I am grateful for all the Silver Linings I was blessed to have found. Broken bones healed my spirit, and now it's time to soar.