For many years, pain and fear were my constant state of being. I had a slew of athletic injuries to my ankles, knees, hips and spine that never healed. Once I injured a joint, it became this weak link, flaring up with debilitating pain, even years after the initial injury and despite constant physical therapy. There were full weeks in high school when I had to crawl up the stairs because I couldn’t walk them. Just as suddenly as the pain came on, it would pass and I’d be back to functioning until the next flareup happened. By the time that I was in college, the pain was matched with fear. I saw how other people injured themselves and the injuries healed in a way that mine never did. I was terrified that I was witnessing the rapid and irreversible decrepitude of my body and didn’t believe that I’d be walking by the time that I was thirty.
Of course, the pain and dysfunction had little to do with my athletic injuries and everything to do with undiagnosed Lyme Disease.
Over the past years of treatment, I always prioritized regaining mental clarity over limiting pain so it wasn’t until I was several years into treatment that I could begin to pick up the pieces of my athletic past and begin to train again. Still, because my body was so very depleted, I had to be very watchful of how hard and long I trained, to prevent myself from collapsing for days afterward. Healing from Lyme has required incredible internal balance and a constant willingness to learn the subtle rhythms of my body.
Here I am, a full twelve years after diagnosis and it was only at my yoga class last week that I moved without fear for the first time. Only in its absence did I recognize the extent that that fear has limited movement: uncaged, I could explore the full expression each asana. For once, I didn’t cradle my ankles when seated, I didn’t hold myself back or move gingerly, a full beat behind the rest of the class in every motion, anticipating pain and trying to work within a limited range of motion to mitigate it.