From every wound, there is a scar, and every scar tells a story. A story that says, I survived.
I’ve got the airport quick change down. This morning- out of the gym at 6:00 am and in the airport bathroom changing out of sweats and into a dress and making myself ready presentable for work by 6:30. Sometimes this takes a bit of time and this morning I ran into a woman in a wheelchair with a cane standing up and getting ready for her day and hoping to be released back to work today.
I connected with her in seconds – maybe it was the wheelchair, maybe its was the shared experience, maybe it was fate. Don’t know. But we connected and talked – my hunch is that shared suck loosened both of our tongues.
There are no pictures of me in the wheelchair. There are two pictures of me on crutches AFTER I was substantially better. I do not talk about the accident. Certainly not with a stranger in the women’s airport bathroom that ended with both of us pulling up clothing to show each other our scars.
I would not wish a “rare” broken leg
on anybody. But I wouldn’t trade the lessons I learned from it for anything either. I sometimes have to remind myself it’s only been 18 months and the mental whiplash from that amount of change, pain, and self discovery is alright and a little self kindness is necessary.