On injury and recovery.

You should quit. The words hang in the air like a dead weight that I am too weak to pick up, even two months later. You’ll only be disappointed. You shouldn’t have to worry about getting back to where you used to be, shouldn’t have to worry about breaking records. It’s your senior year. It’s time to start focusing on exams and graduation, not meets and PRs. Just relax. You owe at least that much to yourself. 

On January 20, the day that I got diagnosed with a stress injury, quitting was the farthest thing on my mind. The voice in my head and the voice coming from others were on opposite sides of a battle that they were both destined to lose. Everything would be okay, I told myself. Only 6 weeks. You can swim, you can bike, it’ll be fine. It’s only indoor, that voice said. You’ll be back to your old self before outdoor even starts.

And then, magically, 6 weeks became 3, and I was running again. I was over the moon. Now, there was no doubt in my mind that would I would be back to where I was. Back to breaking that annoying 3200 record that had been there for 2 years. At least, that’s what should’ve happened. Instead, I still felt disheartened, still felt broken. Not only had my teammates progressed while I was sitting there, helpless, but my body didn’t feel the same. There were aches where there weren’t before, new, unidentifiable soreness. On top of everything, I still had foot pain. So I went to the back to the doctor. And as quickly as I had gotten out of it the first time, I was right back where I was on January 20th. In the boot.

This time, the voice in my head was beginning to waver. It was beginning to get weaker. Thinking about the possibility of giving up. Because ultimately, the other voices were right. It was my senior season. I had a successful cross country season. It made more sense to throw up that white flag and walk off that track, leaving everything behind me. It would just be so much easier. But I couldn’t. I wasn’t done yet. My body may have been, but my brain was not, and in the end, that’s the only thing that matters. And sure, other people may break the record before me, but I’ll get there. It’s only three weeks, only four meets. So I stayed. 

It’s hard to put into words how agonizing it is to watch your teammates, who you love, become more successful than you at the one thing that you love most in the world. It’s so hard. But that is what I did. They say that you should leave your heart on the track when you race, and I did. The thing is, when I got injured, I forgot to pick it back up. And every time the 3200 was run during those three weeks, my heart got trampled, more and more. My resolve was beginning to break.
I was mad at myself. Mad at myself for being unable to find genuine happiness for my teammates’ successes. Mad at myself for getting injured not once, but twice during my high school career. This shouldn’t have happened. Not to anyone, but especially not to me. It wasn’t fair.

Now, those three weeks are up. I’m back. I’ve run two meets. The voice in my head wants so badly to surrender to the other side, wants so badly to leave and never have to look at a track again. Now, the other voices are singing a different song. They’re telling me I should be happy with the times that I have ran, so soon after being injured. A 6:15 and a 12:58 is nothing to be ashamed of on my first meets back. Respectable, even. They’re telling me that I still have time, still have plenty of meets to get back to where I used to be, back to breaking that record. But the thing is, I don’t. It’s my senior year. I’m not running collegiately. It’s now or never. And never is approaching scarily fast.

I wish I could say that this is a story about resilience, and bravery, and success. But it’s not. It’s a story about loss, and heartbreak, and grief. But it’s also about acceptance. People tend to forget that acceptance and giving up are two different things. Because, ultimately, they are. Acceptance focuses on the most realistic outcomes, while giving up focuses on the most pessimistic. And when you’ve had an injury like I’ve had, acceptance seems to be the most plausible approach to recovery. So starting today, I’m going to start doing accepting. Accepting the fact that I’m still going to run this year, but I may never run a 12 flat 3200. Accepting the fact that by the end of the season, my heart may be trampled into millions of pieces and I may cry after every 3200, but I’ll still be on the team, doing what I love most. Running. Because in the end, times don’t matter. PR's don’t matter. That’s not what recovery is about. The only thing that matters is how you feel when you run. And I still love it. So I’ll still run.

- Naomi Karmel (@Naomilk_)