Right now, everything feels hard.
I’m dealing with an extremely sore in left foot. As my podiatrist suspects a stress fracture they think. I’m wearing a moon boot on top of an already-existing physical disability where I already use a walking frame. The pain isn’t great, but what makes it harder is that I still have to stand, balance and push through the left foot to do everyday things. Add a moon boot into the mix and suddenly the simple stuff feels like an obstacle course.
And because Melbourne has decided to turn up the heat, wearing a bulky boot wrapped around my foot is about as comfortable as you’d imagine. It’s hot, heavy, and impossible to forget it’s there.
Sleep, which is usually my way of coping, hasn’t been kind either. Last night the bedroom blinds broke and wouldn’t close properly. My right eye doesn’t shut fully (one of those long-term stroke souvenirs), so light is my enemy when I’m trying to rest. The result has been a night of broken sleep. Pain plus sleep deprivation makes everything feel heavier than it should.
The hardest part is knowing this isn’t a short-term inconvenience. I’m staring down several more weeks of this, and that thought alone is exhausting. Pain has a way of shrinking your world. The fear creeps in with questions like: What if this makes everything harder long-term? What if this limits me even more? Those thoughts are scary, and I won’t pretend they don’t exist.
Still, there are small moments of light.
Tomorrow I’m going to the tennis with my nephew. I’ve hired a wheelchair, not because I want to but because I don’t want my injury to slow him down or take away from his experience. When I mentioned it, my nephew immediately found the positive spin: apparently we’re more likely to skip the queues. He’s not wrong. Sometimes optimism comes from unexpected places.
I’m also grateful that my podiatrist has been reassuring. The message was clear: I can still do everything, I just need to wear the moon boot. The next couple of months will be about adapting, not stopping.
And maybe that’s the quiet truth of life after stroke: adaptation becomes second nature, even when you’re bone-tired of doing it.
You learn how to keep going while feeling frustrated, how to hold grief and gratitude in the same breath and how to show up even when your body is loudly protesting.
Right now, I’m tired, sore and frustrated. But that’s ok. I’m letting myself feel this way, allowing myself to just accept that I can still be ok even things can’t be fixed. I don’t always need that without always trying to find a silver lining.