Training structured my days.
Discipline shaped my mindset.
Progress gave meaning to effort.

Then came the injury.

Not dramatic. Not cinematic.
Just one moment that changed everything.

Recovery was supposed to be temporary.
That’s what everyone said.
“Give it time.”
“Your body will come back.”

It didn’t.

At some point, I had to accept a reality I didn’t choose:
I can no longer train the way I used to.
I can’t push, compete, or rely on my body the way I once did.

That loss is hard to explain to people who’ve never built their identity around physical ability.
It’s not just about movement.
It’s about purpose.
Routine.
Control.

Sport teaches you to endure.
But it doesn’t teach you how to stop.

There were days of frustration.
Days of anger.
Days when I felt useless in a body that used to be strong and reliable.

Over time, something shifted.

I stopped asking when I would “return” — and started asking who I am now.
What still matters.
What remains when performance is gone.

I’m still disciplined.
Still focused.
Still resilient.

The injury took my sport, but it didn’t take my ability to grow.
It just forced me to grow in a direction I didn’t expect.

I don’t know yet what comes next.
But I know this:
I am more than what my body can do.

And learning that has been the hardest training of all.