“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.

The alarm goes off at five thirty in the morning, and the husband rises to the sound of nails scratching on the floor, scattering on the hardwood and running to the door. The dogs clatter downstairs, followed by the husband rubbing sleep out of his eyes. Cold brushes against his face as he opens the door to let them out, the Minnesota winter biting especially fiercely in late January. The husband calls out the dogs names as they run back inside, leaving paw print shaped puddles on the tiled floor. He walks to the coffee machine, switching it on and listening to its hum as it heats up, the high pitched whine similar to that of a motor boat puttering in lake water. 

Taking a little longer to rise from her slumber, the wife follows the husband downstairs and is met by the sound of the coffee grinder and the welcoming smell of coffee, preemptively jolting her system awake. Glass cups clink against each other as the husband takes them from the sugar cupboard, first pouring the espresso and then the foamed milk, the liquid gently swirling. The couple take their coffee from the kitchen to the living room, sitting with their morning media of choice while the dogs cuddle up next to them. Her nose just peeking out of the plush blanket next to the wife, the youngest dog dozes. Ten years her senior, the older dog rests in his traditional grouchy manner, curled up on the floor by the husband. On an orange loveseat close to the window, the husband sits with his cappuccino and iPad, reading the morning news and sipping espresso. The foam bubbles quietly popping as the cup is drained. His wife writes in her journal, a thin lined notebook yet somehow she never runs out of pages. It is six in the morning, the beginning of their day. 

At six thirty, they ready themselves in winter gear to take their furry companions on a walk. The husband often jokes to their friends that his wife is a cold blooded reptile, referring to her intolerance to the cold as she dons a long sleeve, sweater, puffer jacket and shell layer. Yet, it’s always told in an adoring manner, how someone describes an intricacy that you would only know by spending copious amounts of time with another, and the look in her eyes when she watches him talk says that she knows this. They don their coats and leash their mutts, stepping out of their brightly lit home where their daughters still sleep and into the winter landscape. Their boots crunch in the snow, the sound mingling with their conversation. “Can you pick up Maddie from her volleyball practice tonight? I have a last minute appointment” she says. “Yup, I’ll grab Penelope from her mock trial practice on the way” he replies. The dogs trot complacently next to them, pausing to sniff an interesting tree then jogging to catch up. 

They walk around the lake near their home, sharing the moments before dawn discussing the week, the day, and anything else that comes to mind. Despite the frigid terrain, it sets the scene for the valuable time that the couple spend together. As not parents, but simply a couple. Raising three girls together is a full time job, one that doesn’t allow for much free time. So, they’ve created this routine, practicing it every day in their many years of marriage, sharing the first few hours of a new day with their best friend. Each other.