FOMO
I recently hurt my foot. It’s not a bad injury at all, just a muscle strain on the bottom edge of the left foot. My doctor sent me to physical therapy, which felt like I was being sent to court, awaiting my sentence of being in recovery prison. “Can’t run for at least 4 weeks,” the physical therapist said, and my shoulders slumped immediately. Not only did I think, “What the hell will I do if I can’t run?”, but I also don’t like not being able to pinpoint the cause. It seems like I woke up one morning and it just… hurt. In my career, I’ve always been able to tell a story with data. If performance dipped or spiked, I’ve been good at pinpointing reasons for these variances. But I can’t seem to do that with my own body. And that bugs me. “Overuse” is not a satisfying enough answer.
It’s been three weeks since my relegation to spin classes and lap pools. I don’t feel the same when I don’t run. Sounds dramatic, but I’ve tied so much of my personality (for better or for worse) to this sport. It’s my social time just as much as it’s a way to clear my head. It’s exercise just as much as it’s therapy. I’m asked when my next race is and I have to say, “Nothing for now.” That is so counter to the essence of my being. Racing keeps me motivated to work out and practice. It holds me accountable in ways no other fitness plan has been able to. Mostly, I believe, because of financial and social pressure - I can’t fuck up, there are people watching and I paid good money for this.
I recognize the simplicity of my injury. It’s muscular, meaning with some ice, Tylenol, and R&R, I should get back to normal pretty soon. I could have an achilles tear, an injury so diabolical it’ll take you out of your sport for a year (Jayson Tatum, we’ll miss you. I might become a Pacers fan while you’re healing). I remember my third marathon training block where my achilles sounded like a creaking door when I flexed my foot. I thought for sure that was the end for me, but then I ran another a few months later and I was totally fine. An act of God, perhaps.
So here I am, with an injury so minuscule yet so soul-crushing that I simply have to complain. One that I know will heal with time and without a major surgery, but one that knocks me out of an activity that I’ve become so accustomed to including in my day-to-day. Who am I if not a runner? Time to look in the mirror and deal with the other shortcomings of my personality.