From “I’d Never Go for Lunch Alone” to “I’m Flying Solo with a Limp”
Years ago, back in secondary school, a friend casually told me she’d gone out for lunch by herself.
I remember thinking:
By herself? On purpose?
My mind spiralled immediately:
- Will people think she’s lonely?
- Will they pity her?
- Will a concerned stranger offer to sit with her out of sheer awkwardness?
I didn’t judge her. I admired her.
But I also quietly thought: I could never do that.
Fast forward to now and here I am—Week 23 of Achilles rehab—booking a solo rehab trip abroad, armed with a limp, a backpack, and a personality shift I did not see coming.
Who is this woman?
And more importantly… who authorised this?
“Heat Is Brilliant for Injuries” (So They Say)
This whole idea began months ago when a friend casually said,
“Heat is brilliant for injuries.”
I nodded politely while thinking:
Absolutely. And I’ll just pop off to the sun while I’m at it, shall I?
Because how exactly does one justify going anywhere when:
- you’re out of work,
- still limping like a malfunctioning flamingo,
- and previously wouldn’t even go for coffee alone?
Then my coach said something annoyingly sensible:
“If you’re doing rehab every day at home, imagine doing it every day in the heat. You don’t go because you’re better. You go to get better.”
Rude. Logical. Correct.
Two Months of Overthinking (My Speciality)
I spent two full months thinking about this trip without ever believing I’d actually go.
I told myself:
- “I can’t go on crutches.”
- “I’ll wait until the limp improves.”
- “I’ll think about it later.”
Which is exactly what I told myself about my blog.
I wrote it.
I tweaked it.
I never thought I’d publish it.
But I did.
And once you’ve hit publish while feeling slightly sick with nerves, booking a solo rehab trip doesn’t feel quite as outrageous.
Training for the Airport (Yes, This Is Real)
In the weeks before Christmas, I did something that sounds dramatic but was entirely necessary:
I practised my rehab wearing a backpack.
Not for fitness.
For airport survival.
Because if I couldn’t manage a backpack at home, I had no business attempting departures. This is what recovery looks like now: very specific, slightly ridiculous preparation.
Cork Weather, Cancelled Flights, and One Small Miracle
Departure day arrived with classic Cork weather—wild winds, cancelled flights, and a general sense of doom.
Flights were being pulled left, right and centre.
Mine survived.
I travelled light—just a backpack—because anything else would’ve been a physical and emotional overreach.
I thought the hardest part was done… until I reached the aircraft steps.
The Older Gentleman (and the Moment That Changed Everything)
In front of me was an older gentleman struggling badly with his suitcase.
And suddenly I wasn’t just thinking about my own limp.
So many people have helped me over the last six months—opening doors, slowing down, quietly noticing I wasn’t okay even when I pretended I was.
I wanted to do the same.
So there we were:
- him, negotiating with gravity and luggage,
- me, negotiating with gravity, luggage, and an Achilles tendon with a serious attitude problem.
We moved slowly. Carefully. Step by step.
Two strangers, both struggling in different ways, getting off the same plane.
And honestly? Helping him felt like one of the biggest wins I’ve had in weeks.
The Guilt (Because It Always Shows Up)
There’s a strange guilt that comes with being out injured.
People worry:
- Will others think I’m skiving?
- Will they judge me for doing anything remotely pleasant while not “better” yet?
Here’s the truth:
I’m not back because I can’t be back. I’m not signed off. I’m still limping. And recovery has taken far longer than I ever imagined.
This isn’t avoidance.
This is commitment.
I thought I’d be back on my feet in three months.
We’re now at six.
So if heat, daily rehab, walking near the sea, and focusing fully on recovery help me return stronger—then that’s not indulgent. That’s sensible.
(Also, if Achilles injuries, and dramatic limping were Olympic events, I’d be quietly competitive.)
Small Wins Matter Too
I once thought going for lunch alone was brave.
Now I’m flying solo, limping down plane steps, helping strangers with suitcases, and finally allowing myself to recover without apology.
Still limping.
Still healing.
Still showing up.
And if that’s not progress, I don’t know what is.
