The injury diaries

I wanted a lot of things from my body before the injury. I was an active person: a social netball player, a (semi) regular gym-goer, and enjoyed walking my dog everyday – but like so many of us, I wanted more.

I didn’t hate my body, but I would have liked it to be fitter, stronger and faster – until a random Tuesday evening when I went to a game of social netball and didn’t return home for 5 nights.

It was not a good game. My team was not well matched with our opponent, we were low on our regular players and although I cannot recall the exact score, we were losing by an unsalvageable number of goals.

This did not stop me as a stubborn defender from launching into the air to try to intercept a ball well beyond my reach, landing awkwardly and breaking my leg on impact.

There was a crack, a loud one. I screamed, I fell, I screamed again. I remember it vividly: My knee. It's broken. I heard it break.

An x-ray and a long night in emergency confirmed this instinct and I spent the next week in hospital waiting for a surgery that was cancelled multiple times. Now pumped with pain medication and unable to move my leg, the only thing I wanted from my body was for it to work. I knew I had taken for granted something I would never truly get back, not in the same way.

Recovery phase one: The pit

The first 14 weeks of my injury that I spent on crutches felt like an emotional pit.

I could not bear weight, so I could not stand by myself, cook for myself, or walk. I felt useless. Like a child having a tantrum, I would cry that it just wasn’t fair.

I missed my sport in the pit, but I missed walking the most. Whenever I have a bad day, I go for a walk. Whenever my eyes hurt from the computer screen, I go for a walk. Whenever the weather is beautiful, I go for walk. If your legs work, do yourself a favour and go for a walk.

Without this outlet, the pit often got the better of me. It told me that if I were a better netball player I may have landed differently, if I trained more in the gym then I may be further ahead in my recovery, if I were fitter and stronger, this would not have happened to me.

I told myself I would never take a healthy, able body for granted again. I would always appreciate carrying my own cup of coffee, opening a door without it slamming in my face, or driving myself anywhere I needed to go – but humans have short memories. Now that I am out of the pit, this all feels ordinary. I want more.

Recovery phase 2: Rebuilding

I can walk and even jog a little bit now. I stay diligent with my physio exercises and am slowly regaining my strength and function, but I still can’t play. I get impatient.

I want to do normal exercises in the gym, not the strange looking physio ones. I want to go into the waves at the beach without immediately being knocked over. I want to play a netball game.

I see athletes talk about injury all the time, about how their identity is so tied up with their sport that they would do anything to get back on the court, but I am not an athlete by any stretch.

I have spent many years of my life without netball and could easily finish my physio and move on to a lower impact activity that would still provide an active lifestyle – but I truly miss netball. I don’t know if I am ready to give it up.

Before the injury, I played social netball once or twice a week for fun, fitness and community. Having given it up as a teenager, it felt nostalgic and fulfilling to reconnect with my childhood sport. This is still one of the best decisions I have made in my adult life and has brought me so much joy. What I lost from my injury was not some deeper sporting aspiration or the chance to win competitions, but my outlet for community, routine and fun.

I know I will never be a professional, a state representative, or perhaps even a particularly good netball player, but I used to be one, and right now I am not.

But once I could not walk, and now I can.

Almost a year ago I came home from my final hospital appointment, rested my crutches against the wall, took my partner’s hands, and for the first time in 14 weeks, placed one foot in front of the other.

I took a step, then another. My legs stumbled and threatened to give in beneath me, but they didn't. Eventually, he let go completely. My muscles were weak, my balance was shaky, my leg hurt. It was scary, but I did it. I could walk. Suddenly, it was all worth it for those few tiny steps.

I miss my old body and I miss the court, but I’ll always be grateful for that afternoon. I’ll always be grateful to this body that I can walk.