Finding Wisdom in Rest

TW: The following story shares words and images from a mountain biking accident. 

On June 6th, I went for a mountain bike ride with my husband Kenny, a sunny spring afternoon that started out like any other. I marveled at the amount of caterpillars scattered about the forest and hyped myself up to try a newly opened trail. As I approached the trailhead I took a deep breath and began to pedal, accelerating through the berms as fast as I could. When I got to the bottom I felt a huge smile spread across my face. I was finally beginning to feel comfortable mountain biking and building upon my skills. As we chatted with a few other riders, Kenny and I biked over to the next trail that would take us back to the parking lot, a trail I had biked dozens of times. I pulled on my elbow and knee pads and started to descend about ten seconds behind Kenny. I turned the first corner and assumed the proper stance as I approached a drop, an exact feature I was quite familiar with. Yet something was off. As my front tire lost traction my bike began sliding out to the left, throwing me from my pedals and down the trail. All I remember was falling hard on my right shoulder as my head smacked down to the earth with such force that I was both immediately worried and also relieved that I was wearing a helmet.

Moments before heading down the trail.

For a brief moment the forest, which moments ago had been filled with birds chirping and people chattering, went silent. I slowly opened my eyes and looked around, first ensuring that there were no bones sticking out in places they shouldn’t be. “Kenny!” I feebly called out, a cry so quiet that it was impossible for anyone besides me to hear. After a few seconds I realized I was still lying in the middle of the trail, a dangerous place to be when I knew other bikers would soon be headed towards me. I leaned on my right arm trying to scoot back but was only met with excruciating pain. On to my left I leaned, in hopes of pulling myself to a safe place off the trail, only to feel a piercing sensation in my hand. I was stuck and scared, just hoping that whoever was coming down the trail next would have enough time to stop before they got to me. 

In just a few minutes I heard two bikers coming down the trail, both stopping immediately once they saw me. While one of them biked up the trail to make sure no one else came down, the other came to me, ensuring I was cognizant. A minute later there were suddenly more people around me, all asking if I was ‘okay’, and not rushing me to move. I remember one individual asking if I was alone. I looked up and realized that I had talked to her at the bottom of the other trail. “No, my husband was ahead of me”, I said. “Red helmet, right?” she quickly asked. “Yes!”, I responded, and she bolted down the trail in search of Kenny.

Only later I learned that Kenny had had a great ride, patiently waiting at the bottom for me as he videotaped the trail in hopes of getting a shot of me. Instead he got a video of this individual booking down the trail. She informed him of what had happened and led him back to me.

Two of the individuals surrounding me slowly helped me up, carrying me back up to the service road at the top of the trail, a short distance that felt like a grand journey at the moment. As I took a seat and tried to catch my breath I began to feel the pain rushing through my body as the initial adrenaline started to wear off. While I knew that I may not need an ambulance, I was sure that I needed to get to the ER. The only problem was, there was no way I would be able to bike down, nor could I walk the few miles back to the car. 

Within a few minutes Kenny appeared, having just biked as quickly as he could back up the trail. Perhaps it was the adrenaline continuing to wear off, or more likely the fact that I was finally with someone I knew and loved, but the tears finally arrived as I worriedly tried to assess what my potential injuries were. 

Kenny began trying to contact everyone we knew who might have access to the gate code in order to get a vehicle up the mountain. While I sat there, trying to take some deep breaths to no avail, two men approached me. They told me how they had both been ski patrol for over two decades, asking if they would be able to help me. A wonderful but honestly unsurprising coincidence to happen in Bellingham. After ensuring my spine was fine and that I was not majorly concussed, they fashioned a sling out of a jacket we had and taped up my sprained ankle. 

The exact timeline is fuzzy, but Kenny was able to get ahold of a friend of a friend who was able to unlock the gate and come rescue us. After reaching our car we headed to the ER and awaited results. While it ended up taking multiple months to get an exact diagnosis for some of my injuries, thanks to our irrevocably broken healthcare system, there was no doubt that I was pretty beat up. 

All in all I fully torn my UCL ligament in my left thumb, sprained my right AC joint along with some minor rotator cuff tears, sprained my right ankle, minor concussion as seen by some gnarly dents in my helmet, and was left with scrapes and bruises from my right ankle up to my right cheekbone. I was unable to cook, clean, shower, dress myself, or even brush my hair for around 7 weeks. I lost the ability to work or drive and with that I lost a lot of my autonomy. Eventually, on September 12th, I had surgery to repair my thumb and am currently in the midst of recovery. 

There is no eloquent way to put it, other than these past five months have changed me, physically, mentally, and emotionally. Being active has been a cornerstone of my well-being since I was a child. For the first six weeks I was unable to do even the most simple of activities. Instead of spending my summer running, biking, hiking, swimming, and backpacking, I found myself only able to go for a walk around the block or sit next to a body of water, perhaps walking up to my waist, but nothing more. 

I’ve had more time to sit and think than ever before in my life, and oh boy did I do some thinking. A few thoughts have continually come to me, loudly knocking at the door, begging to be heard. Perhaps the most persistent thought I keep returning to is the following:

Who am I? Who am I when I let go of the stories that I tell myself? When I let go of the stories of who others and society tell me to be? Who am I in this moment, regardless of what past versions of me there have been? What do I truly enjoy? What do I do (or not do) because of the stories that loved ones, society, and I tell myself?

So you know, just some light reflection as I have an existential crisis. Normally during times of struggle I find myself using movement as a way to process emotions, but alas, that has not been an option for me during recovery. Thanks to copious amounts of journaling, rest, therapy (of the mind, shoulder, and hand), and even more rest, I’ve realized that, although it may seem odd to others, I’m actually quite grateful for this injury. While I have not enjoyed the injuries themselves, I’ve gotten to spend an immense amount of time with myself, and thankfully I revel in having time alone. This time has acted as a homecoming as I remember and return to the habits and practices that make me feel like the truest version of myself. 

These past five months have also reminded me how much I love writing for the pure joy of it. I have been fortunate enough that the blog I started writing fresh out of college paved the way for my career as a freelance writer. While writing became my job, I slowly began to lose sight of what it meant to write from the heart. Blogging has always felt like I am sharing snippets of my mind through a medium that allows me to be my authentic self. 

The thought of restarting my blog excites me and feeds my creative outlet in a way it hasn’t been in a long time. And while I may still not be able to type with both hands (hopefully soon), I know that at this moment writing is part of my healing process and I’m thankful to have you along for the ride. I have a clear vision of what I want this blog to become, one that feels difficult to put into words just yet but I hope you’ll tune in if what I’m writing about speaks to you. Here's to remembering who we are and giving ourselves permission to find wisdom in rest.