June 13th, the first day of summer workout. I just finished the best season of my gymnastics career and was back in the gym ready to work hard. I hurdled myself up to a panel mat, came down, and heard a crack in my foot. I crashed to the floor holding my legs tight to my chest. Footsteps surrounded me, and I looked up to see my friends hovering above. My coach, Sarah, kept a positive attitude, constantly telling me, “You’re going to be okay.” She handed me an ice pack and instructed me to sit with my foot elevated. Five minutes passed. Then ten. Then fifteen. My teammates returned to workout, and I remained seated. My eyes nervously flew from the clock, to my foot, and back again. As Time passed, my foot started to resemble a goose egg.
As my teammates moved to the next rotation, I trailed behind them, and every move felt like a knife stabbing my foot. My best friend, Raina, an expert on all things injury related, came over and asked to see my foot. When I saw her eyes widen and jaw drop, I knew something was majorly wrong. My foot had begun to turn a shade of bluish-grey and appeared to be swelling larger by the minute. I frantically called my mom, praying she was still at the gym. She appeared in the viewing room window, with her phone pressed to her ear listening to me retell what happened.
Coach Sarah carried me out to my mom’s car, and within minutes we were on the way to the doctor. I sat trembling, with butterflies flying inside my stomach. My mom kept looking back at me, and I smiled at her, blinking back tears. Thoughts were whirling through my head between pain, disappointment, trying to stay positive, and fear of losing everything I’d worked for.
We arrived at the orthopedist, and I was determined to get inside the office. The lobby door creaked open, and I couldn’t help but think that no one in the room looked as afraid or panicked as me. I sat down silently, still holding the ice from gym, that was now making a puddle on the floor below me.
After what felt like a million years, I limped into the X-ray room. The machine hummed quietly, popped, and then it was over. It was confirmed. The the doctor appeared in the doorway, with an uneasy look on his face. “It’s broken,” he said. I slapped my hands to my eyes, and flung onto the pillow that was laying on the patient’s table. “Four to six weeks off your foot, no pounding, no nothing”. They gave me a boot and wished me a speedy recovery. I didn’t cry, but the pain and defeat I felt inside was almost worse than the injury itself. It was the first day of summer workout. The beginning of so much opportunity and improvement, but it felt like the wind had been knocked out of me and I had nothing left.
I had the option to stay back from gym the next day, but that did not happen. Even though the next two months were not easy, I didn’t miss a workout all summer. I showed up to workout everyday, ready to do what I could. While my teammates were moving forward and getting stronger, I was stuck in a boot. Sometimes I felt as if I were drowning in a pit of tar with no way to climb out. However, the more I struggled, the harder I worked, and the more capable of escaping I became. I pushed through my doubts, was patient with the healing process, and in time my perseverance brought me right back to where I wanted to be. Sprinting, flying through the air, and sticking the landing.