Falling off curbs isn’t just a literal thing for me these days It’s become a bit of a metaphor. I was up at the crack of dawn this morning, not metaphorically, I mean actually before dawn. By 6am, I’d already washed, showered, done my mindfulness practice, and was sitting in the silence wondering… what now?
With the kids away and my husband still sleeping (how dare he), I found myself with a whole morning stretching out ahead of me like a question mark. So, I did what any grounded recovering woman would do: boring admin. Nothing like spreadsheets and password resets to start your day with a bang.
Then I turned to something that’s been tugging at me lately: the blogs. What am I doing with them? What do I want to do? The truth is, the injury – my Achilles rupture – cracked open something much bigger than a tendon. I’ve started hearing more and more stories from people who’ve been through major physical setbacks: knee reconstructions, surgeries, accidents. And the thing I keep noticing? It’s never just the body that breaks. There’s always a mental and emotional shift too – sometimes gentle, sometimes like a storm.
I don’t want this blog to be “all about me.” I want to use it to connect. To start building something – a space where these kinds of stories are told, where we can laugh, vent, relate.
Speaking of venting, today I took my first solo wheelchair trip around the house. Let’s just say falling off curbs is not for the faint-hearted. I fell off twice, and honestly, that little moment became this huge metaphor. When you fall off in life – really fall – getting back on feels impossible. But also, it is possible. Because I did it. Not gracefully, but I did it. And I’m proud of that.
Later, I just sat on the bed and stared out at the hallway – it was so clean, calm, with those pretty flowers on the little table. It looked peaceful, almost perfect. But with the kids away, no real noise, no chaos, no motion… it felt empty. It hit me in that quiet moment: without the mess and the movement and the life, there’s a kind of stillness that can feel a little hollow. Like a beautiful room that no one’s living in.
During that stillness, I kept thinking about falling off curbs as a symbol for recovery – how sometimes progress is messy, unsteady, and awkward. But it’s still progress.
I did a video call with the kids – they’ve been loving life, jumping off the pier in Ventry, eating lunches outside on patio chairs, soaking up every bit of summer. And it was gorgeous to see. But I felt this ache too – a pull to get better, to get back to doing the things I love, the things that make me feel like me.
And I realised… I will recover. Eventually. I’m lucky. There are so many people who don’t – not fully, not quickly, sometimes not at all. And I thought about what that must feel like, day after day. That realisation settled something in me. Whether it’s teaching kids how to improve in maths, teaching myself how to slow down, or teaching my own children that it’s okay to see me upset and in pain – this is the lesson right now.
It’s not just about getting better. It’s about learning how to move forward – even if that means falling off curbs a few more times along the way.
