I had my 18 week follow up with my surgeon yesterday. I left defeated. I went straight to physical therapy and cried. Then I came home and cried again with my husband. This is the reality of healing. There are good days and bad days, but sometimes one person’s words and actions can weigh heavier than they should and leave you questioning everything.
Six weeks ago at my last appointment I was still in a boot and using crutches. Over these last six weeks I have gotten out of the boot and off the crutches. That should be celebrated or at least that is what I was thinking when I went to the appointment. Instead, I walked into an appointment that left me feeling like I had failed my recovery and felt shame trying to attach.
The surgeon looked at me and said, “I see you are walking with a limp.” That part is true. Most of the time I still carry pain or tight stretching with every step. Regaining a normal stride and gait has been one of the most frustrating parts of this journey yet I am still trusting the process and the journey for it to get back to normal.
He had me stand up. Then stand on one leg. Then the other. Then he asked me to go up on my toes. I remember thinking, excuse me what. I struggled just to understand what he was asking and then faced thoughts of how do I do this when my body doesn't know how to keep balance well just trying to put one leg through my underwear and pants, and when I tried, my uninjured left leg did most of the work. I didn't really do much with my right side. He then had me do a single toe raise on my left leg and commented that even that side was weak. It wasn't just the words but the way he stated the words and the way he looked at me that stung. In that moment I felt embarrassed and honestly shocked at how blunt he was.
Then, knowing I had just struggled and knowing I have not even started single leg calf raises in physical therapy yet, he asked me to do one on my injured right side. I remember thinking, I can barely balance confidently on this leg yet, let alone perform a single calf raise at 18 weeks post surgery. I left wondering if he had even reviewed my chart or my current phase of rehab.
For months I had been told, “It’s a marathon, not a sprint.” Suddenly it felt like the expectation had changed without warning. Everything I have read and been taught says that months four and five are often the hardest. This is when the tendon is stretching, stiffness increases, and pain can fluctuate. Strength lags behind mobility. Limping is still common. Single leg calf raises are often one of the last milestones to return and can take six to nine months or longer for many people.
None of that knowledge stopped the shame from creeping in.
When I got to physical therapy, my therapist told me she was bracing for the emotional blow before I even arrived. She explained that this doctor is known for lacking tact and bedside manner, and that Achilles recovery is highly individual. That validation helped, but it did not stop the tears. I want to walk without pain. I want to be fully healed. I want progress to feel encouraging, not condemning.
I realized I had a choice to make. I could carry anger, resentment, or discouragement, or I could choose to let this moment become motivation. I do not want bitterness to take root in my heart. I want healing in every sense of the word.
So I choose to keep going. I choose to stretch more, even when it is uncomfortable. I choose to walk more, even when my gait is imperfect. I choose to strengthen patiently, trusting the process. I choose to believe that healing is still happening even when it does not look the way I wish it did.
At 18 weeks post surgery, I am not behind. I am healing. I am learning. I am still in the middle of the story.
Lord, help me not become bitter, but better. Guard my heart from discouragement. Remind me that You are present in the slow, painful, stretching places. Give me endurance, wisdom, and hope for the days ahead. Amen.
If you are reading this and walking your own healing journey, know this. Progress is not always linear. Pain does not mean failure. And being in the middle does not mean you are stuck. Keep going.
Six weeks ago at my last appointment I was still in a boot and using crutches. Over these last six weeks I have gotten out of the boot and off the crutches. That should be celebrated or at least that is what I was thinking when I went to the appointment. Instead, I walked into an appointment that left me feeling like I had failed my recovery and felt shame trying to attach.
The surgeon looked at me and said, “I see you are walking with a limp.” That part is true. Most of the time I still carry pain or tight stretching with every step. Regaining a normal stride and gait has been one of the most frustrating parts of this journey yet I am still trusting the process and the journey for it to get back to normal.
He had me stand up. Then stand on one leg. Then the other. Then he asked me to go up on my toes. I remember thinking, excuse me what. I struggled just to understand what he was asking and then faced thoughts of how do I do this when my body doesn't know how to keep balance well just trying to put one leg through my underwear and pants, and when I tried, my uninjured left leg did most of the work. I didn't really do much with my right side. He then had me do a single toe raise on my left leg and commented that even that side was weak. It wasn't just the words but the way he stated the words and the way he looked at me that stung. In that moment I felt embarrassed and honestly shocked at how blunt he was.
Then, knowing I had just struggled and knowing I have not even started single leg calf raises in physical therapy yet, he asked me to do one on my injured right side. I remember thinking, I can barely balance confidently on this leg yet, let alone perform a single calf raise at 18 weeks post surgery. I left wondering if he had even reviewed my chart or my current phase of rehab.
For months I had been told, “It’s a marathon, not a sprint.” Suddenly it felt like the expectation had changed without warning. Everything I have read and been taught says that months four and five are often the hardest. This is when the tendon is stretching, stiffness increases, and pain can fluctuate. Strength lags behind mobility. Limping is still common. Single leg calf raises are often one of the last milestones to return and can take six to nine months or longer for many people.
None of that knowledge stopped the shame from creeping in.
When I got to physical therapy, my therapist told me she was bracing for the emotional blow before I even arrived. She explained that this doctor is known for lacking tact and bedside manner, and that Achilles recovery is highly individual. That validation helped, but it did not stop the tears. I want to walk without pain. I want to be fully healed. I want progress to feel encouraging, not condemning.
I realized I had a choice to make. I could carry anger, resentment, or discouragement, or I could choose to let this moment become motivation. I do not want bitterness to take root in my heart. I want healing in every sense of the word.
So I choose to keep going. I choose to stretch more, even when it is uncomfortable. I choose to walk more, even when my gait is imperfect. I choose to strengthen patiently, trusting the process. I choose to believe that healing is still happening even when it does not look the way I wish it did.
At 18 weeks post surgery, I am not behind. I am healing. I am learning. I am still in the middle of the story.
Lord, help me not become bitter, but better. Guard my heart from discouragement. Remind me that You are present in the slow, painful, stretching places. Give me endurance, wisdom, and hope for the days ahead. Amen.
If you are reading this and walking your own healing journey, know this. Progress is not always linear. Pain does not mean failure. And being in the middle does not mean you are stuck. Keep going.
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