More Than a Fall: When Old Pain Finds Its Way Back

I thought I just fell…
but what came rushing back was something much deeper.

When I think of “trigger,” I immediately think…bad. Heavy. Something that knocks the wind out of you.

But what if something happens that doesn’t necessarily trigger something bad…
…but instead brings you back?

Back to a moment.
A memory.
A version of yourself you haven’t visited in a while.

That happened to me this past Sunday.

I fell.
And not one of those cute, laugh-it-off kind of falls.
I mean an awful, ugly, painful fall.

I was just walking with my husband and a couple of friends after watching the Husker baseball game and I tripped, rolled my ankle, and face-planted. HARD. Really hard.

At first, the shock carried me.

There was blood.
A loose tooth.
Scrapes everywhere.
A very swollen ankle.

I had clearly traumatized my body—but oddly, the pain felt delayed.

Looking back, I’ve wondered why.

And I don’t know if this is the reason, but I do know this about me:
I have a tendency to go into “be strong” mode.
The kind where you push everything aside because you feel like you have to take care of everyone else first.

Eventually, this fall earned me a trip to the ER. I was convinced I had broken my wrist.

Instead, I walked out with an avulsion fracture in my right ankle.

That ankle.

The same one that has caused me years of issues.
The same one I had surgery on.
The same one that quietly unlocked a flood of memories this week.

I’ve had weak ankles since high school—spraining them during what felt like every basketball game. As I got older, it didn’t really stop. I’d still tumble. Still roll. Still end up in a boot more times than I can count.

But this time felt different.

Not just because of the ER visit.
Not just because of the fracture.
But because of what that ankle represents.

December 2008.

That’s when I had surgery on it.

And that’s also the same month my late husband, Jack, was told he had 6–9 months to live.
(He lived 2 months)

Jack was the one who pushed me to get the surgery done.
He didn’t want me struggling with my ankle if I was going to be alone with our daughter, Graci.

So we scheduled it.

What I remember from that time…still sits heavy.

Me recovering from surgery.
Jack going through daily brain radiation.
Jack sitting in the waiting room after his treatment—feeling awful—waiting for me to come out of surgery so he could take me home…only to turn around and do it all again the next morning.

For 10 weeks, I was limited.

Six weeks non-weight bearing.
Four weeks in a boot.
Then a brace.

And during that time…
I sat on the couch and watched the man I loved slowly die in front of me.

And I couldn’t do anything about it.

When I finally got to the point of being in the boot, things with Jack got worse.
The last week I was supposed to transition out of it…was the week he declined and went on hospice.

I remember trying to help move him—from chair to wheelchair to bed—
and not being strong enough.

I was so angry.

Angry that I had done the surgery then.
Angry that I was stuck in that stupid boot during one of the hardest seasons of our lives.

And yet…
it was a blessing he pushed me to do it.

I even wore that same boot to his funeral.

A week after he passed, I went to a follow-up appointment.
I remember sitting on the table while my surgeon, Dr. Galligan, looked at me and asked where my husband was.

“I cried and said…he died.”

He gently responded, “I wondered how much longer he had after I saw him last… he looked pretty gray and ashen.”

I never imagined my ankle story would be tied to that kind of ending.

And so…
this fall last Sunday?

It didn’t just hurt physically.

It stirred something deeper.

On Monday, I felt it.
A heaviness I couldn’t fully explain.

I found myself apologizing to my husband, Chantz—calling myself a klutz, feeling frustrated, emotional, off.

But it wasn’t really about the fall.

It was about what it brought back.

The fear of being in that place again.
The vulnerability.
The loss of control.
The memory of not being able to show up the way I wanted to.

I’ve built a strong sense of independence over the years—
and this moment cracked that open a bit.

There were fears.
What-ifs.
How-comes.

I worried I had seriously damaged my ankle.
That I’d be sidelined again.
That I’d feel that same kind of loneliness.

But then came the follow-up.

And relief.

No surgery needed.
Just two weeks in a boot and some physical therapy.

Best-case scenario.

And suddenly, I could see clearly again:

How lucky I was.
How much support I have.
How many small things went right.

A baseball cap that saved my nose from getting broke. 
A friend who showed up with exactly what I needed for my road rash. 
A chiropractor helping speed up healing.
A PT in the family.
Quick access to dental care to save my tooth.

And the love.

So much love.

From Chantz.
From family.
From friends.

My ego?
A little bruised. 😊
But my heart…very, very full.

So here’s what I’ve landed on:

Triggers aren’t always the enemy.

Sometimes they don’t knock you down—
they wake you up.

They remind you.

They invite you to pause.

To feel.

To remember where you’ve been…
and how far you’ve come.

Yes, they can bring up painful memories.
Yes, they can take you back to places you’d rather not revisit.

But they can also gently whisper:

“You made it through that.”
“You’re stronger than you remember.”
“You are not there anymore.”

Sometimes, a trigger is just a nudge to slow down.
(To my friend Amy…thank you for that reminder.)

A nudge to honor the past…without getting stuck in it.

A reminder that strength, hope, and love—
they don’t just exist in the big moments.

They quietly carry us through the small ones too.

And if you’re wondering about golf…

League starts Wednesday.

And you better believe I’ll be there—boot and all—doing whatever I can safely do. 😉