Sometimes Healing Looks Like Asking for Help
- 19 hours ago
- 4 min read
Four years ago, I took a fall off Dolly that changed far more than my riding plans.
I broke my tibia plateau and tore my meniscus. If you're wondering what that means, imagine breaking the top of your shin bone and shoving it into your knee. It's a bit like breaking your leg and your knee at the same time.
Apparently, if you're going to get injured, my inner overachiever believes in doing it thoroughly.
(For anyone wondering, yes, it's cool to land on your feet when you fall. You should just remember to bend your knees when your feet hit the ground.)
What followed was one of the hardest seasons of my life.
A four-hour surgery.
Waking up with fluid in my lungs.
A week in the hospital while my medical team struggled to get my pain under control.
Three months before I could walk normally, drive, or ride.
Nine months of physical therapy.
And somewhere in the middle of all of that, life kept happening.
My mom died not long afterward.
Work became incredibly difficult and it became obvious I needed an exit plan.
There was grief to carry, responsibilities to manage, and somehow, I just... kept moving.
Or maybe surviving is the more honest word.
Looking back now, I don't think I ever truly processed the accident.
I certainly didn't process lying alone in the indoor arena after the fall, without my phone, yelling for help until I was hoarse (no pun intended). There was a moment when I genuinely wondered if anyone was coming and had decided to take a literal dirt nap.
Those memories stayed tucked away, quietly waiting for me.
Trauma has a way of doing that.
It waits patiently until we're finally safe enough to feel it.
Now, four years later, my knee has been reminding me that healing isn't always finished just because time has passed.
I've been living with increasing pain and after meeting with my surgeon, we've decided it's time to remove the plate and screws that were put in to hold everything together as my fracture healed.
The hope is that removing the hardware will reduce my pain by about 80%.
When I first heard that, I almost convinced myself to wait.
Maybe until my business was more established.
Maybe until life felt less busy.
Maybe until I had someone at home to help lighten the load.
Maybe until it was... convenient.
Then my knee kindly reminded me why I'd made the appointment in the first place.
Pain has a way of cutting through denial.
I also realized something that hurt even more.
Riding Dolly — one of my greatest sources of joy — had started making my knee stiff and painful.
That settled it.
This is the right time.
Even if it doesn't feel like the easy time.
I'll spend six weeks recovering.
Six weeks without driving.
Without riding.
Without caring for Dolly the way I'm used to.
If I'm honest, that's the part that makes me the most emotional.
Not because I doubt she'll be well cared for.
She will.
Because caring for her is one of the ways I express my love.
Stepping back feels vulnerable.
But maybe that's exactly the lesson waiting for me.
For most of my life, asking for help has felt incredibly uncomfortable. (I'd still rather poke my own eye out with a dull spoon.)
I've worn independence like a badge of honor.
I've been the one who figured things out.
Who managed.
Who stayed calm in chaos.
Who carried more than I should.
Who quietly believed I had to.
This surgery is asking something different of me.
It's asking me to trust.
To let people show up.
To receive care instead of always providing it.
To believe that accepting help doesn't make me less capable.
It makes me human.
Thankfully, I won't be walking through this alone.
I'm working through all of these feelings with my therapist, my coach, and a few of my closest friends.
Because here's something I believe deeply:
Even coaches need coaching.
None of us are meant to navigate life's hardest seasons by ourselves.
In fact, I think that's where healing often begins.
Not when we finally become strong enough to do everything alone...
But when we become brave enough to let someone walk beside us.
So over the next several weeks, I'll be practicing something that doesn't come naturally to me.
Receiving.
Receiving help.
Receiving kindness.
Receiving support.
And maybe, in doing so, I'll discover another layer of healing that has been waiting for me all along.
If you've ever struggled to ask for help, I hope you'll know you're in good company.
Maybe strength isn't measured by how much we can carry on our own.
Maybe it's measured by our willingness to trust that, when our own load becomes too heavy, someone else will help us carry it for a while.
I know I'd do that for someone I love.
Perhaps it's finally time to let them do the same for me.
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