I've been an athlete for as long as I can remember. Nine years of grinding on wrestling mats. Rock climbing until my hands stopped answering. Ultra marathons across deserts and mountain ranges.
I'm used to pain. It's the entry fee for the life I wanted. You push hard, you hurt, you recover, you go again. That kind of pain is loud, but it makes sense. You earn it.
Then pain stopped being a choice.
It started with cars that didn't stop. First car: a driver blows a stop sign at 30 miles an hour. Second car: someone hangs a left out of the right lane and I'm the one who pays for it.
Two totaled vehicles. One body that suddenly had opinions about sitting, standing, sleeping, lifting, breathing. For the first time, I understood the word “chronic.”
Then came the bike.
One minute I was riding. The next thing I remember is waking up six hours later in the ER, staring at ceiling tiles and trying to piece together my own day. My nervous system felt like somebody had gone in and rewired everything to a single setting: ON FIRE.
Here's what nobody tells you: You can be “lucky to be alive” and still miserable in the life you have.
You can do “all the right things” and still feel like your body is dragging you behind it.
I wasn't looking for a high. I wasn't even chasing zero pain. I just wanted my body to stop stealing every scene of my day.
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