It was two weeks before the start of school, and I was at my school’s park, preparing for my cross-country season. My pace was faster than ever before, I was clocking 8-10 minute miles, setting a new personal best. I even teased my friends who were football managers at the time, joking that I could outrun them. We laughed and joked together. I finished my warm-up, set the timer for my final lap, and took off. I ran and ran, the rhythm of my feet hitting the ground fueling me, sweat dripping down my face. I knew I was killing it. Then, a rocky road covered by grass in the road caught me off guard. I nearly fell on my butt, and that’s when I felt a weird sensation in my ankle—it wasn’t pain or comfort, just an unsettling feeling. Despite that, I kept going, dead set on finishing strong. I wrapped up my conditioning and headed home. My ankle still didn’t hurt, so I thought little of it. But that night, at exactly 11:21 p.m., I woke to an excruciating pain in the same ankle. The pain was sharp, overwhelming, a sharp reminder of that odd sensation from earlier that day.
The next morning, I found myself on crutches with my ankle wrapped in a brace, even though my season was starting in just two days. I cried myself to sleep every night for the next month. The disappointment, the frustration—it was unbearable. When I finally returned to practice, just weeks later, I reinjured myself. The pain was worse this time, and my coach sat me down with the most heart-wrenching words: “Hey, Shy, I think you should sit this season out.” I wanted to break down in front of him, to scream, to let all my emotions flood out. But I held it in. September 15, 2024, became the day my world shifted. The day I learned I wouldn’t be running with my team again until late 2025.
I spiraled into a deep depression. Running was more than just a sport to me; it was my escape. It was the one thing that kept my mind off everything else, the only thing that felt like it belonged in my life. But now it was gone. The team I loved, the coaches who cared, everything I had worked for—taken from me in an instant. To this day, I’m still on and off crutches, and I’m forced to wear an ankle brace whenever I attempt any physical activity. It’s a constant reminder of what was stolen from me. I feel trapped, isolated, and misunderstood. People tell me I’m being dramatic, that I’m overreacting. But unless you’re an athlete, unless you’ve experienced this kind of loss, you can’t truly understand.
Although I went through such a tough time, it opened my eyes to many different ways of coping. I found myself trying new things, like doing hair. It not only kept my mind and hands busy, but it also allowed me to make money. I found peace in getting lost in creativity. Clients would often laugh with me about the sound of my crutches. They didn’t seem to mind it, and that made me laugh too. Over time, I received a lot messages from friends telling me how strong I was. At first, I thought they were just saying it out of pity or obligation, but. When I was alone with my thoughts, I realized something: I am strong. I could have let the crutches control me , let them control my life, but I didn’t. I kept pushing forward. Instead of letting my injury break me, I found new outlets! Creative, emotional, and financial ,that helped me heal in ways I hadn’t expected. This experience taught me not to let a single bump in the road control my entire life. While it’s easy to get stuck in the pain, it’s important to remember that there’s always a way forward! Sometimes, it just takes a little time and perspective to find it.
Rashyra Alexander