#05 - resilience is a pool, perseverance is a muscle

what doesn't kill you makes you have weekly therapy appointments

“Night and Her Daughter Sleep”, Mary L. Macomber, 1902

Today, I ran three miles.

And almost 5 years ago to the date, I relearned how to walk.

What was supposed to be a routine knee surgery with a two week recovery period suddenly became a 7+ hour surgery that would require full bed rest for weeks. I was devastated. I had planned for a 2 week recovery. Now, I’d be out for months. Daily tasks were suspended. I couldn’t walk, shower on my own, or even leave the house.

My left thigh muscle atrophied and became stiff. It was as terrifying as it sounds, but “normal” and expected for what I was going through. I waited weeks for my knee to heal, then worked in PT for months to relearn how to walk.

My very first PT session was me, sitting with my legs extended, while I worked on bending my knee. A task that I had taken for granted was now physically impossible. It would take me several sessions before I was able to noticeably bend it. Throughout each of those sessions, I cried both from pain and frustration.

I bring this up because I want to talk about resilience.

Like most people, I have gone through many things in my life that have required me to adapt. To survive. And I have shifted accordingly. My mother’s surprise cancer diagnosis with no prior family history. My father’s sudden heart attack while he was out on a run.

When I’ve been at the mercy of insurmountable grief, I find that I still wake up the next day. When I think this is it, this is the breaking point, I cannot survive this, I somehow do.

Every time I think I have hit my limit, I find that I can endure much more.

From all I’ve experienced, I’ve learned what resilience actually looks like. Sure, it can mirror the movie montage of the injured athlete coming back and surpassing their original goal. But most of the time, at least for me, it’s been in the quieter moments.

The small moments where I choose to cry. The bigger moments when I’ve broken down and been met with understanding. The slow acceptance that I can never go back, that things won’t be the same, but I can find a new way with different goals.

When I’ve let myself be low, be sad, it’s made space for all of this. When I’ve sat with fear and frustration and allowed it to be there, I’ve felt steadied. No pressure to “catch up” no pressure to “get back”. Even the days where I just show up, my body physically present, tethering me to the world while I emotionally recover. There was learning there, too. The harmony of the push and pull. The balance of the work and rest.

My therapist reminds me to give myself credit. For the times that I’ve endured, survived. It has never been magical or perfect, but it’s been mine. My sensitive heart has found its way even when I worried.

Specifically because of the people that have been there to sit with me when I was at my most vulnerable. My mom helping me shower. My dad taking my then puppy out for walks. Both of them making food for me in the midst of the pandemic. My friends checking in on me. My PT holding my hand while I cried every session. People navigating the uncomfortable to let me know they care. Until finally, I could shower, cook, and walk on my own.

I am always reminded that I survived because others knew when to listen and knew when to challenge. They knew to hold me when I cried and smile when I made little victories. I survived because of others and their kindness, their strength.

Today, I ran three miles.

I am often reminded of resiliency when I exercise. I remember relearning to walk, and now I run. Rebuilding my muscles, my confidence. Working out has always been my space. No one needs me. I don’t have to accommodate, I don’t have to perform. It’s just me and the movement. On difficult days, I fall back on this.

Exercising constantly reminds me of the power of my body. That I have overcome and I can do it again. A reserve to be called upon. It’s the first place I learned to have an appreciation for my body. I can run. I can lift. I can walk and dance and swim. In this world that demands I shrink, I can go my own way: I can grow.

I think about these things often and it moves me to tears. The paths that got us here, the things we have all endured that shape our responses. I am always in awe of people and the different ways we keep trying. Being a therapist showed me that. It looks different for everyone. It can be soft or loud.

Rarely is it perfect, but it is always worth pursuing.

I didn’t want to include this in the actual essay part, but still wanted to share this.

All of this reminds me of what Albert Camus said in his essay “The Myth of Sisyphus”: One must imagine Sisyphus happy. That quote has always brought me comfort. Although I have seen lots of different interpretations, to me, it has always felt more of a reframing of Sisyphus as a hero rather than a victim. It reminds me to find meaning in the everyday, in the mundane. It commends his resilience for continuing his task, despite the absurdity, and not giving up.

In case you’re curious about other takes on “One should imagine Sisyphus happy” here’s this:

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Thanks so much for reading. It means the world to a sentimental girl like me.

<3 Sam