A year ago today I broke my hand.

I remember the day more clearly than any other. It was Labor Day and I was at Orangetheory for my usual Monday morning workout. Because it was Labor Day, the class was full and I snagged the last available treadmill – #12. Twenty or so minutes into the workout, it was time for the last All Out; that is, a 30 second fast-as-you-can run. I bumped up the speed on the treadmill and drew my left arm back to pump my arm forward. (Pump your arms and your legs will follow, they say.) Next thing I knew, I had smashed my left hand into the arm of the treadmill at full force. I must have been off-center on the treadmill.

It hurt, but I finished the 30 second run and tried to shake out my hand (which didn’t feel that great, either). I figured I had just bruised it. So I wiped down my treadmill and rotated to the rower. When I couldn’t grip the rower handle, I knew I had a problem.

After a few halfhearted pulls, I decided to leave, my hand throbbing as I drove home one-handed. When I got there, I woke Daniel up and said, “I think I hurt myself.” I took the first of many one-handed showers and decided to call the walk-in clinic associated with my doctor’s practice. (I really didn’t want to go to the ER.) They could see me at 2:00.

In the meantime, to distract me from the pain, Daniel and I went shopping for a new water bottle I could use during workouts. In hindsight, I must have been in total denial. That, and I was gaslighting myself. My hand hurt, but it didn’t hurt that bad – not bad enough to be broken… right?

When we got to the walk-in clinic, they informed me that there was no X-ray technician working due to the holiday. I saw the PA anyways, who wrapped my hand with a finger splint and told me to get an X-ray the next day. Amazingly, the splint immobilized my hand enough that it felt better. That, plus a lack of emerging bruising, had me convinced that it wasn’t broken.

Somehow, I slept that night. The rest of the week unfolded at a glacial pace.

On Tuesday, I went for X-rays between staff meeting and a lunch meeting. Later that day, I learned a bone had indeed broken and I was referred to an orthopedic hand specialist.

On Thursday, I saw the hand doctor and his PA, who marveled over the force at which I broke my own hand and kindly informed me that I needed surgery… the next day. I sobbed. (And have I mentioned that this was my dominant hand?)

On Friday, I had my first-ever surgery for my first-ever broken bone. Surgery prep felt like it took forever and flew by all at once. At one point, though, the nurse said to me, “The doctor likes to pray with his patients before surgery. Would you like that?”

Cue more tears. Bless that nurse – she asked me at least one more time until she got my explicit consent.

The doctor’s prayer was perfect and the last thing I remember before the anesthesia took over and I had three screws put in my hand. The surgery went well and I spent the rest of the day (and the next) on the couch, sleeping.

On Sunday, I preached a sermon. (10/10 would not recommend preaching two days after surgery and that’s a story for another day.)

A year ago today, my life changed. I went from stubbornly independent to entirely reliant on the help of others. I couldn’t shower alone; I needed help getting dressed. I was unable to open my contacts blister packs or pill bottles; I couldn’t drive or write or type or cook. When they heard what happened, my congregation showed up with meals three times a week for more than a month, a huge gift that I’m still so grateful for. Daniel had to help me with the rest (until my mom flew in to help, too), and I had to adapt so many of my ways of being, relying on Siri instead of writing and rides from congregants and colleagues instead of my own driving. I couldn’t work out (that new water bottle became my preferred method for washing down pills instead of a gym companion). I couldn’t hike (no activities with an elevated risk of falling allowed). I didn’t realize how effective my coping mechanisms were until I no longer had access to them.

After three months, my bone healed and I was cleared to resume regular activity. My hand doctor told me it would take up to a year for me to be able to do a plank (or any kind of activity requiring a load-bearing flat palm). He was right; that’s still not the most comfortable thing, but I’m getting there.

These days, my hand is basically as it was before last Labor Day – with the exception, of course, of the one-inch scar that runs up the top of my hand. My recovery was slow, but smooth. I feel indebted to the doctor who fixed my hand and his whole team. My physical therapist at one point told me that this doctor has a reputation around the practice for being fastidious during surgeries, checking and rechecking again and again as he repairs bones. I get teary even now thinking about how glad I am for his care and dedication to his craft (and his patients). I’m grateful for my physical therapist too, who sat with me twice a week for twelve weeks rebuilding my strength and eliminating scar tissue. (Like, truly eliminating. I have none. How amazing is that?!)

That said, Daniel and I still have not gotten back into a routine of hiking, which we used to do almost every weekend. It’s been a hard year, for this and many other reasons. Lately, I’ve not been sleeping well, and though I don’t know why, I wonder today if my body was aware of this impending anniversary in a way my brain wasn’t.

A year ago today I broke my hand and turned my life upside down for three-plus months. Today, I went to Orangetheory and got through the entire workout, unscathed and triumphant. (Though I’ve still not touched treadmill #12.) Today, I feel overwhelming gratitude for healing; for medical grade screws; for all those who helped care for me; and for my strong, resilient body.