When your body stages a protest but you’re still climbing back up the stairs.
I know I’m a teacher, but I promise I haven’t forgotten my ABCs. It’s just that this week has had so many different chapters, I’ve had to label them like schoolwork — Week 13A, 13B, 13C, and now, 13D. Every few days something shifts, something aches, something improves — and somehow, it all feels worth writing about.
The big thing this week? I moved back upstairs. That might sound small, but after thirteen long weeks of living downstairs, it feels like reclaiming a little piece of my old life. I’m back in my own room, my own shower, my own wardrobe — and I no longer have to shout, “Can someone bring me socks?” like some kind of royal-in-exile.
Last night, I even made the kids’ lunches again. The normal, chaotic kind of mum life — slicing bread, packing snacks, running through the morning checklist. Then this morning, I was up early, back in the madness, and it felt so good. Like a tiny piece of me had clicked back into place.
But then… the shower moment hit.
It’s strange how something as ordinary as stepping into a shower can feel emotional. I caught sight of myself and thought — who even is this version of me? The runner, the Pilates person, the go-go-go teacher… she’s been benched for months. And now my body seems to be protesting too.
It’s not just the foot. It’s the whole left-hand side of me — the calf, the thigh, the glute, the shoulder, the hip, even up into my neck — all apparently on strike. Like a full-blown union protest:
“We’ve had enough. You’ve ignored us long enough. We’re shutting it all down.”
And the worst part? No one warned me this would happen. Not a single doctor or physio said, “By the way, your shoulder will feel like a damp tissue, your glutes will forget how to exist, and your calf will have the personality of a stubborn toddler.”
Now I’m told to go to the gym. To rebuild muscle.
I said, “Sure, let’s just work on the legs.”
They said, “No, we’ll do full body.”
I said, “The right side’s fine, thanks — can we leave her alone?”
And don’t get me started on the protein shakes. They say “chocolate flavour,” but really they taste like punishment for past sins.
People mean so well when they say, “You’re walking with one crutch now — nearly there!” But what they don’t see is that even when I walk without it, it’s like having a bear clawing its way through a tree inside my leg — scraping, twisting, refusing to budge. That’s how it feels, every step.
Still, in between all that noise — there’s movement. There’s progress. I’m back upstairs. I’m showering in my own bathroom. I’m shouting at kids to hurry up again.
I might be walking funny, creaking, shaking, and feeling like there’s wildlife in my leg, but I’m walking.
And maybe that’s the real story of Week 13 — learning that recovery isn’t about being who you were before. It’s about finding pride in the weird, messy, bear-clawed steps that get you there.
