I jumped high in the air, pumping my fists after winning a point during a throwball match. The next moment, I was on the ground. My right foot had landed wrong; I felt something pop. Within minutes, my ankle had ballooned. Someone got a chair, someone else rushed to fetch ice, another person called a doctor.
But the reality of the moment didn’t sink in. Despite the swelling, I had the audacity to think that I could continue playing. Funnier still, I believed this would not affect my upcoming first half marathon at the Tata Mumbai Marathon in two weeks.
And then I tried to stand.
A sharp pain sliced through my foot.
Finally, reality hit. This was not something minor.
I called my husband from the sidelines of the court. With a shaky voice, I said, “Amit, we need to see a doctor immediately.” Limping in pain, even walking to the car felt like a marathon.
My body had slowed down, but my mind was racing.
I am a hopelessly hopeful person. I imagined the doctor saying, “You will be fine in a week and you can run your half marathon.”
But it was not to be.
The doctor looked startled when I asked him if I could still run. “Forget about TMM. There will be more marathons in the future, but if you don’t let your ankle heal with complete rest, there will be none.”
It finally sank in. My vision became blurry, and tears rolled down my eyes as my dream dissolved exactly two weeks before my half marathon — a race I had trained tirelessly for over eight months.
It had been the only thing on my mind for nearly a year. I had sacrificed weekend outings with friends. I had denied my family late nights on Saturdays so I could wake up early for my Sunday long runs. I was riding on a high, looking forward to my impending race.
Everything shattered with that one celebratory jump.
But was it really just that single jump that led to my fall?
At the time, that seemed like the obvious cause. But now, exactly a year since that fateful day, I realize there was more to it than what meets the eye.
I had not listened to my body. I had pushed myself hard for months. I was maniacally trying to do too many things simultaneously. I had overlooked rest and recovery.
My overzealous attitude is what cost me.
And it didn’t end there.
I did not understand recovery properly. I believed reduced swelling plus lack of pain meant a healed ankle.
How far from the truth that was.
The mistakes I made continued, and nobody else was to blame. My more experienced runner friends advised me to take it easy, but I turned a deaf ear. It was my impatience to return and my denial of certain facts that cost me.
The fact was that injuries don’t just require recovery; they require rehabilitation.
Another reality was that my recovery and rehabilitation at the age of 44 would take longer than it might have at a younger age. I never even considered that, because I had been as active as someone ten years younger.
I may have overlooked the factor of age, but my bones, tendons, and organs certainly hadn’t.
With all this put together, an injury I should have recovered from in four to five months stretched to eight or nine months and took nearly a year before I could run without pain.
It turned out to be one of the most painful, difficult, and depressing years of my life.
The lack of movement affected my mind. The absence of structured mornings unravelled my days. Each attempt at a comeback, followed by resurfacing pain, chipped away at my confidence.
Rapid weight gain from inactivity made even walking uncomfortable.
I was moody, irritable, and listless. It became a vicious cycle.
But it wasn’t all bleak.
It became a profound midlife lesson.
I learned that I am someone who cannot thrive without daily movement. I learned that recovery is not the same as rehabilitation. I learned to respect sleep and strength training as much as mileage.
And I owe much of that shift to a patient physiotherapist who insisted on a plan when all I wanted was speed.
And I must give myself credit for not giving up.
It was a tough year, but I came out tougher.
I run slower now.
But I run stronger, happier, and wiser.
Snehal Writes 