New Year’s Eve is coming up.
Not in a sequins-and-staying-up-late kind of way, more in a well, we made it sort of way. This year feels different. Not bad, just different. Recovery has a way of changing how you see time. Days feel longer. Progress feels tiny. But when you stop and look back even a little, you can see that things are shifting. Slowly. Quietly. Almost sneakily.
One of the biggest wins lately was realising I could take a few steps without staring at my foot like it was about to betray me. No analysing, no holding my breath. Just stepping, like a normal person. Or at least a nearly normal one. That felt enormous.
The dog has noticed too.
For months, I was clearly invisible to her, crawling around like a piece of suspicious furniture. But now, I’m upright more often, and she’s decided I’m worth engaging with again. She brings toys over, sits nearby, and generally keeps me accountable for moving. Progress comes in many forms.
I’m also getting back into my kids’ lives in a way that feels more like me. I can do small things with them. I can move. I can take short walks — proper ones, down the road and back. The kind that remind you you’re slowly inching your way back into your own body.
I’ve even been encouraged to get on a push bike.
Which is terrifying.
The balance, the trust, the “what if my foot doesn’t cooperate” panic — all of it feels like a lot. But apparently the low impact is excellent for recovery, so at some point I’ll have to stop arguing with professionals who know what they’re talking about. Even if I do spend the first few attempts gripping the handlebars like my life depends on it.
New Year’s Eve itself won’t be wild. Not that it ever really is. I’ll probably be in bed before midnight, congratulating myself for staying awake through the news. But this turning of the year feels quietly important.
Not because everything is fixed — it isn’t.
Not because I’m suddenly flying — I’m not.
But because I can see progress.
The steps are tiny. Not even baby steps. More like moving your big toe in front of the other one and calling it a day. But they count.
I’m getting up earlier. I’m doing my physio. I can feel that every bit matters — even the boring bits, especially the boring bits. Recovery isn’t glamorous. It’s repetitive. It’s patient. It’s showing up when no one’s watching and trusting that small things add up.
So this New Year isn’t about resolutions or reinvention. It’s about continuing. About wobbling forward. About letting progress be quiet.
If there’s a wish for the year ahead, it’s this: may I keep noticing the small wins, keep laughing at myself, and keep moving — even if it’s just a toe at a time. And maybe, just maybe, by this time next year, I won’t even remember to look down at my foot. Now that would be some way to ring in a new year.
What This Year Has Taught Me
Big toes deserve respect. Who knew they were doing so much heavy lifting, physically and emotionally?
Dogs notice when you’re improving. If the dog starts hanging around again, you know things are looking up.
Short walks are never “nothing.” They’re quiet victories that remind you you’re moving forward, even if it doesn’t feel dramatic.
Push bikes are terrifying. But wobbling counts as courage, bravery, and progress all at once.
Being able to do small things with your kids is huge. Even if it leaves you exhausted, it’s worth it.
Tea remains a cornerstone of recovery. It may not fix your foot or your fear of the bike, but it does wonders for morale.
Midnight is optional. Progress does not require staying awake past the weather forecast.
And laughing at yourself helps more than you’d think. Especially when you’re wobbling on a bike or celebrating toe movement — the absurdity is part of the magic.
Here’s to a year of very small steps, quiet progress, and trusting that we’re getting there — even when it doesn’t look like much from the outside.
