It’s about 11 a.m., and my youngest daughter is buzzing with excitement for the Dublin Horse Show. Earlier, she grabbed my crutches and went off like a human tornado. Watching her run around, pretending to be a horse with my crutches, I laughed and wondered how I survived parenthood this long. She’s off now with her friend, and I couldn’t be happier.

Meanwhile, my other daughter is chasing a dream — trying to earn a spot on the East Cork GAA team. She’s been working so hard, and naturally, I’ve been that parent hovering in the background, worrying about every minor bump, bruise, or overplayed muscle. Since my accident, that anxiety has intensified. But today, I had a little epiphany: maybe I need to let her grow… while I sit here on my crutches, trying not to trip over my own cast.

Speaking of being “on hold,” that’s exactly how I feel right now. A friend called, but had to put me on hold to deal with something urgent, and suddenly it clicked. That’s me — on hold for life, on hold for my kids, on hold for everything I usually manage like a one-person command centre.

Let’s rewind to what my Saturdays used to look like: Pilates at sunrise, breakfast at the markets, a peaceful walk to the in town or in the woods,errands, planning, organising, conquering. I was like a Swiss Army knife of efficiency. Now? My planning diary sits tucked away in a drawer, dust gathering on its cover, as my crutches lean against the wall — a quiet but firm reminder that my world has slowed to about 0.5 mph.

This morning, I had my “reality check.” Both kids left early — one swiped my phone charger, the other stole my crutches. I had to crawl across the floor like some kind of exhausted ninja just to retrieve them. I thought, “This is it. This is my life now.” The shock of what I can’t do hits hard. It’s frustrating, humbling, and — if I squint just right — funny. Because really, watching a 10-year-old prance around like a Dublin Horse Show champion on your crutches? Comedy gold.

Recovery is messy. It’s raw. It’s full of small humiliations and quiet victories. But it’s also a teacher. For me, it’s teaching patience. For my kids, it’s teaching perspective. Kids between 10 and 11 (and beyond) can feel their identity is wrapped entirely around school, sports, and social life. Being left out feels devastating. As a parent, watching that through the lens of your own “paused” life teaches empathy — not just for them, but for everyone who’s ever been sidelined, injured, or just plain stuck.

Some funny truths about post-surgery life I’ve discovered so far:

1. Your crutches can be weapons. I now understand how my youngest daughter became a mini horse.
2. You become an expert at crawling. Who knew I’d rediscover my inner cat?
3. Patience is a muscle. It hurts just as much as your physical therapy.
4. Everyone is moving… except you. The world continues, and you learn to cheer from the sidelines — even if you’re stuck on your sofa.
5. Empathy skyrockets. You suddenly get how tough it is to be “on hold” — for kids, friends, and coworkers alike.

So here I am, learning to laugh at my limitations, celebrate small wins, and survive the chaos of kids and crutches. My takeaway for anyone recovering from surgery (or life throwing a curveball):

• Celebrate micro victories. Even crawling across a room counts.
• Let go of what you can’t control. Your kids, the world, the horse-show crutches… all beyond your immediate reach.
• Find humor wherever possible. It keeps your sanity intact.
• Embrace empathy. This pause in your life teaches lessons about patience and perspective you’ll carry forever.

Recovery isn’t linear. Some days you feel strong. Some days, like today, you’re crawling across the floor to retrieve stolen crutches while your daughters conquer the world. And that’s okay.