Becoming My Own Partner
- 7 days ago
- 7 min read
What surgery taught me about self-trust, rest, and coming home to myself.
Four years ago, I broke my tibia plateau and tore my meniscus after falling from my horse (who I'd had for just three weeks).
I was alone in the arena when it happened.
I remember calling for help until I was so exhausted that I was preparing to take what I jokingly call a literal dirt nap. And then, through the haze of my shock, I heard someone say:
"I'm here. I'm here to help."
What followed was a four-hour surgery, complications, a week-long hospital stay, three months before I could walk or ride, and roughly nine months of physical therapy.
It was one of the most frightening experiences of my life.
So when, four years later, I learned that the hardware in my leg needed to come out, I knew exactly what I was signing up for.
And I was scared.
And not just because I remembered the accident.
Or because I remembered waking up after that first surgery and spending months wondering what my body would be capable of again. Those fears were there, for sure.
This time, I was also scared because I would be doing it differently.
And, in some ways, alone.
For nearly half of my life, I had a partner beside me.
My husband was calm, reliable, and incredibly capable. He was strong in a way that made me feel safe.
When life became overwhelming, I could sometimes borrow some of his strength.
There were moments when despair would wash over me and he would hold me against him, tuck me underneath his chin, and say:
"We'll get through this like we always do... together."
And for a long time, that was exactly what I needed.
There is a particular kind of comfort in knowing someone capable is standing beside you.
Someone who will help carry the weight.
Someone who makes you believe, We'll figure it out.
Our marriage is now ending, and that ending has been its own complicated journey of grief, growth, and coming home to myself.
But I want to say something that feels important to me:
Our marriage was wonderful for a very long time.
My ex-husband is an incredible man. We built a beautiful life together. And even though there's heartbreak over the end of our marriage, we have chosen to be patient and gentle with each other as we find our way through it.
I am deeply grateful for him.
I don't need to make our marriage bad in order to explain why it ended.
I don't need a villain.
I don't need to erase the love to make room for the loss.
In fact, one of the things I carry most gratefully from our marriage is an understanding of what true partnership can look like.
And perhaps that's why the echoes of that partnership can still be heard in the way we're learning to let each other go.
As my surgery approached, though, I realized something I hadn't expected:
My mind and my body missed that comfort terribly.
I missed having someone beside me.
I missed that calm voice.
I missed being held.
I missed the feeling of borrowing someone else's certainty when I was afraid.
And I found myself wondering:
How am I going to do this alone?
So I did what I know how to do.
I made a plan.
I thought about what had made the first surgery so difficult and what I would need this time. I put together a network of people who could help me. I prepared my home. I prepared for the barn. I made sure I had what I needed.
And then I had the surgery.
My support person stayed with me that first evening and then went home.
And for the next ten days, I was on my own.
Not alone.
On my own.
There is an important difference.
My people were a text message away.
I had friends checking in.
I had people helping with Dolly.
I had a surgeon who listened to me.
I had a medical team who cared for me.
I had Gus, who apparently interpreted "postoperative recovery" as an invitation to become a full-time emotional-support black cat.
And I had myself.
What surprised me most was how much I enjoyed it.
I had expected being alone to feel frightening.
Instead, there was something deeply peaceful about knowing I could listen to my body without having to negotiate with anyone else's needs.
If I was tired, I slept.
If I needed to rest, I rested.
If I didn't want visitors, I said so.
If I needed help, I knew exactly who I could call.
And if I didn't need help?
I didn't call.
I trusted myself to know the difference.
That was the revelation.
I trusted myself.
I knew what I needed because I'd been through this before.
I knew what my body was telling me.
I knew when something was normal discomfort and when something needed attention.
I knew when to take my medication.
I knew when to get off my feet.
I knew when I had done enough.
And I knew that if something changed, I could ask for help.
I didn't have to prove that I could do everything alone.
I simply discovered that I could trust myself to take care of myself.
And something beautiful happened while I was resting.
I slowed down.
Really slowed down.
I slept.
A lot.
I watched the light change in my home.
I cuddled Gus.
I missed Dolly.
I thought.
I listened.
I let my body heal without constantly asking it when it would be ready to perform again.
And somewhere in all that quiet, I realized that I had spent much of my life thinking of strength as something I had to summon.
Now I'm beginning to understand strength differently.
Sometimes strength looks like getting up and doing the hard thing.
Sometimes it looks like asking someone to help you.
Sometimes it looks like saying no.
Sometimes it looks like sleeping until your body wakes up on its own.
Sometimes it looks like realizing you could do something and choosing not to because you know you aren't ready.
And sometimes...
Strength looks like realizing:
I can be my own partner.
That doesn't mean I don't want partnership again.
I do.
I want someone to hold me underneath his chin someday.
I want someone whose strength I can lean against.
I want someone to say, "We'll get through this together."
But I don't want to need someone else's strength because I don't have any of my own.
I want to be able to lean into someone because I'm already standing.
That's different.
And I think that's one of the greatest gifts this season of my life has given me.
My marriage taught me what it feels like to truly partner with another person.
My divorce is teaching me that love and letting go can coexist.
And this season of healing is teaching me that I can partner with myself, too.
I don't have to choose between independence and connection.
I don't have to choose between being strong and being held.
I don't have to become less capable to let someone love me.
And I don't have to stop needing people to learn that I can trust myself.
I also learned that doing something alone isn't the same as being alone.
I had loved ones a text away throughout those 10 days.
I could have called.
I could have asked someone to come over.
I could have said, "I'm having a hard day. I need you."
And I knew they would come.
That knowledge mattered.
I didn't have to summon my support system simply to prove that I could do this.
I could trust myself to recognize when I needed help.
And I could trust the people who loved me to be there when I asked.
That isn't isolation.
That's self-trust supported by connection.
I'm now three weeks into recovery.
My leg is already moving better than it did before surgery. It's less stiff. It hurts less. It catches less.
And the other day, I crouched down without even thinking about it.
Then I realized what I'd done.
"Wait. I'm in a crouch."
I wondered if I could get back up.
I could. (Thank goodness. LOL.)
And my first thought wasn't:
What else can I do?!
It was:
Let's be mindful.
😂
Y'all, maybe that's the real recovery.
Not proving how much I can do.
Not racing toward the next milestone.
Not needing to demonstrate my strength.
But knowing that I have it...
and trusting myself enough to use it wisely.
I don't know exactly what my next chapter will look like.
But I know something now that I didn't always trust before this surgery.
I can do hard things on my own.
I can let people help me.
I can love someone deeply and still know when a chapter has ended.
I can grieve something beautiful without deciding it was a mistake.
I can want partnership again without needing someone to complete me.
And someday, when the time is right, I hope to find someone who wants to walk beside me.
Someone I can lean into.
Someone whose strength I can borrow sometimes.
Someone I can say "We'll get through this together" with.
Not because I can't do it myself.
But because I know I can.
And I'd rather share my strength with someone than surrender it.
Maybe that's what coming home to yourself really means.
It isn't walking away from everything that came before.
It isn't becoming endlessly self-sufficient.
It isn't deciding you don't need anyone.
It's gathering the wisdom, love, strength, and lessons from every chapter...
and carrying them forward.
My marriage gave me the gift of knowing what partnership can feel like.
My divorce is teaching me how to let go with love.
This surgery taught me that I can be there for myself, too.
And somewhere in the quiet of these past few weeks, with a healing knee, a ridiculous black cat, a lot of sleep, and more introspection than I expected...
I realized something beautiful.
I wasn't abandoned in the hard thing.
I stayed.
I took care of myself.
I listened.
I rested.
I asked for help when I needed it.
And I discovered that the person I was left alone with was someone I could trust.
I was my own partner.
And maybe that's one of the most important ways I've ever come home to myself. ❤️
A note from Painted Horse
This is the work I believe in at Painted Horse Equine Coaching.
Not becoming a woman who never needs anyone.
Not becoming endlessly self-sufficient.
Not learning to carry everything alone.
But learning to trust yourself.
To listen to the quiet voice underneath the shoulds and expectations.
To recognize your own strength.
To know when to soften.
To know when to reach out.
To know when it's time to rest.
And eventually, to stand beside yourself with the same compassion, patience, and belief that you so freely offer the people you love.
Because sometimes coming home to yourself isn't about becoming someone new.
Sometimes it's about finally realizing that you are someone you can come home to.
🐴❤️
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