“It’s going to be hard for your body to adjust when you’re normally so active”, I remember my grandma had told me through the phone as I leaned my crutches against my bed. One leg sticking behind me like a flamingo, the plastic rattled as it fell, the sound echoing in my brain like I imagined the metal of handcuffs. Hours earlier I had been marveling at the beauty of nature, perched on a mangrove while carefully untangling a thick rope from its roots. As I stood on the thin root, my balance shifted incorrectly and I crashed into the tree, the foot I had been leaning my weight on suddenly in agony. 

Feeling the rough, cool branches under my cheek, I took two deep breaths and stood, ignoring the searing pain in my left foot. I rarely get injured, my last trip to urgent care taking place when I was ten and tripped off my Razor scooter. Which is why I thought that my body was overreacting, an idea I was quickly discouraged from as I sat on the toilet seat and watched a flap of skin flip up from between my toes. 

A trip to urgent care and a CVS stop to buy crutches later, the only time I had cried during the ordeal was when I realized that I wouldn’t be able to run or work for a week. The pain of being limited from my half marathon training hurt more than the gash in the ball of my foot. 

If only I’d known, it wouldn’t be just running that I would miss. Today marks day four of crutches, and my perspective on movement has completely shifted. The first trip to the grocery store where I was stuck on an electric scooter while people moved easily around me was a sneak peek to the rest of my week. I couldn’t carry anything by myself, couldn’t open the door, couldn’t shop for groceries without someone to reach the top shelf for me. 

My friends in my life know me to be active, waving hello in my sweaty gym clothes, leaving a hang out early to get in my long run or getting up for a second portion to meet my protein for the day. I work out one to two times a day, and frequently clock ten thousand steps per shift at my food running job. Being active is a part of my identity, a major source of my confidence and an outlet to my frustrations. Over years of mental training, it feels less like a chore and more of an opportunity to appreciate my body for all the work it does for me. 

Now, instead of meeting me with “Damn dude, you look buff”, my friends approach me with pitying faces and an “I’m sorry”. Something inside me aches a little when I meet their eyes, laughing it off and telling them it was my own fault for not wearing water shoes. I see their perception of me shift iin these conversations, morphing the idea of me from someone who had their shit together into a helpless victim of injury. 

At the same time, the love I feel from them is overwhelming. Of course, I am endlessly grateful for the help my friends have given me. But I wish that I didn’t need it. 

The aggressive rap music that’s dominated my playlists has become soft indie lullabies, the strength and confidence I felt dissipating with each creaky, three legged step. I miss living without fear of my physical limits, a feeling that I’m learning is incredibly privileged. This time in the world of the semi(immobile) has left me with a new perspective on what being “active” really entails- a healthy, non-disabled body. It changes relationships and jobs, and leads you to develop a perspective on a world where short stairs are a feat of athleticism. 

Today is the first day that I have walked in a week, and the feeling of freedom is palpable. Despite the ache in my foot and the significant limp I’m sporting, the feeling of walking to my classes with two feet is unmatched. Even after the sores under my arms from my crutches heal, and the pain in my right knee from balancing on it fades, I hope that I remember my time in the semi(immobile) world for a long time after this.