People have been so kind.
“How’s your leg?” they ask — in texts, voice notes, emails. Friends, neighbours, people from the community I might not have spoken to in years — all reaching out with genuine care and compassion.
And I appreciate it. I really do.
But it’s not just my leg.
It’s not even the pain in my leg, if I’m honest. It’s the pain in my mind. It’s the grief in my gut. It’s the darkness that’s settled over me in ways I’ve never known before. Because it’s not just about crutches or casts or the slow shuffle from one room to another. It’s about losing a version of yourself — instantly, without warning.
One day I was up, active, living. The next, I was sitting in a hospital room in CUH, surrounded by five doctors who were all in agreement: surgery was the only option.
I remember asking — probably too casually — “How long will recovery take?”
One of the consultants looked at me and said, “If you were a professional athlete, this would be the end of your career.”
That sentence hit me like a truck. I wasn’t prepared for it. I don’t even think I breathed after I heard it.
Soon after, I was lying back on a hospital bed, a fresh cast being applied to my leg. Crutches leaning against the wall beside me. A wheelchair waiting in the hallway. When they finished, I sat at the edge of the bed and tried to hold myself together.
But the tears came.
I wiped them away and quietly asked a male nurse if he could help me into the wheelchair. He didn’t say much — just wheeled me out and left me in the waiting room.
I sat in the corner and cried again. Proper, body-shaking tears. People looked over, but I didn’t care. Because at that moment, I had nothing left in me to care with.
Yesterday I had one life. Today, I have another.
I’ve thought a lot about how news like this is delivered. I know the HSE is under pressure. I know staff are stretched and running on empty. But still, when you’re giving someone life-changing news — even if it’s not terminal — it needs to be handled with humanity.
Empathy is not a luxury. It’s essential.
That moment changed everything for me. And yet, I wasn’t given space to ask questions, to process what recovery would look like, or to understand what this would mean for my mental health, my independence, my role as a mother, partner, and woman.
I walked (or rather, wheeled) away with a sentence in my head that felt like a death knell: “This would be the end of your career.”
But I’m not an athlete. I’m a teacher. I’m a mum. I’m a person who used to walk her kids to school and run her errands and go to Pilates and feel strong in her body. And now, I don’t feel strong at all. I feel like I’ve collapsed from the inside out.
In some ways, I know I’m one of the lucky ones.
My husband is a life coach — a transformation coach, in fact — and his whole career centres around helping people navigate change, rebuild their lives, and find strength in adversity.
But when it’s someone in your own home, someone you love, it’s not always that easy. Sometimes you need a different kind of space — one that’s just for you. That’s why I’ve made the decision to start working with a coach.
Even writing that sentence is hard. Saying “I’m going to get a coach” doesn’t roll off the tongue easily. But I know it’s the right thing. You need to talk to people. You need to open up. You need to be raw and honest and say things like:
“I’m scared I’ll never get back to how I was.”
“I’m terrified it will snap again.”
“I don’t want to sit here and become inactive or depressed or give up on myself.”
Because that’s the truth. I don’t want to lose myself to this injury. I don’t want five months to pass and feel like I never got my life — or my body — back. And it takes mental strength as much as physical strength to avoid that. Coaching I hope, will help me hold onto that part of myself that wants to fight, even on the hardest days.
People don’t always see the grief that comes with an injury like this. The world only sees the surface — the boot, the crutches, the slow steps. But what about the loss of identity? The fear? The crushing uncertainty? The nights you lie awake thinking, Will I ever feel like myself again?
I’m not sharing this for sympathy. I’m sharing it for honesty. For the others who have gone through something similar and felt ashamed for struggling. For those who’ve had their life turned upside down and are silently falling apart inside.
This is the side of recovery we don’t talk about enough — the mental side. The dark side.
But maybe by talking about it, by writing through it, by showing up even in this broken space, I can begin to stitch something back together.
Not the life I had yesterday — but maybe something new.
