Eight weeks post-op. Nine weeks post-break. Sometimes that’s all it takes—the green light. The permission to trust your body again. I’m a firm believer that when there is a will, there is a way, and today my doctor gave me exactly what I needed. His words? There is enough hardware in my foot  that I don’t need to be afraid of it anymore. I can work it out. I can stretch it. I can push it to the limit. It will not  break. Pause. Deep breath. Freedom. Then came the follow-up: “But do not run....

Seven weeks post-op feels… different. I finally saw where all the hardware lives and, wow, I can literally feel every screw like they’re paying rent in there. 😟 They told me, “Only ditch the crutches if it feels comfortable.” So naturally, I said, “Perfect, permission granted,” and tossed them like a bad habit. My pain tolerance is way too high for my own good, and the rebel in me is READY to ditch all of it and sprint into the sunset. I Googled just how bad this injury actually is. And...

Yesterday marked five weeks since I broke my tibia and fibula, and four weeks since surgery. Somehow the time has both flown by and dragged on—with each day feeling like its own little chapter. The first couple of weeks were a haze. I depended on the meds, which kept me in a fog and turned my emotions into something unpredictable—moody, sad, and not quite myself. But here I am now, over a week med-free, and feeling much more grounded and clear. I’m still wearing my boot, partly out of caution...