I walked into my bedroom and caught Lyla lovingly touching my afghan draped at the end of my bed. “Whatcha doin?”
She sighed deeply and gave it one last glance. “Just thinking. Remembering.”
Her eyes lifted to mine. Then to my left hand. It’s a look that my family members have given me over the past three years. A little bit of sorrow, little bit of wince, followed by a whole lot of thoughts and memories.
My eyes went to the afghan—a reminder of pain and a promise of success all at once and always together. “How’s your challenge going?” I asked directing the conversation away from the past.
“I’m finished for the day.“ She shrugged and I could see a flicker of doubt. Understanding passed between us.
“It will take as long as it takes,” I said motioning to the blanket she still was touching. It’s a phrase I should have stitched into the thing.
Last fall Lyla sustained a head injury that put her in bed for a total of five weeks. It messed with her sense of balance whenever she did turns such as pirouettes and fouettés at ballet. Not so much most would notice. But I noticed. She noticed. Especially when she kept falling.
Her teachers were quick to dismiss it with encouraging words, “She’ll be on and off for the next few years as her body matures and changes its center of gravity. Don’t worry.”
True words. Wise advise.
But I felt uneasy and Lyla was frustrated. A growth spurt had not caused the issue. A brain injury had. So we did what we have learned to be the most successful thing we can do to accomplish a goal in life. A method of three simple things.
Ask any top athlete, elite operator, successful business leader, “What’s your secret to success?” and their answers are always similar. It’s not talent or luck that got them there but a semi-obsessiveness to practice the basics.
This concept is something I’ve drilled into Lyla in her pursuit of classical ballet. And my afghan was the very symbol of my experience doing the same.
Three and a half years ago I was in a cycling accident. A sunken railroad track snagged my front tire and flipped my bike catapulting me head first about a dozen feet or so through the air. I tucked and braced for impact. My helmet smacked the concrete first resulting in a massive fracture on the outside with over a dozen on the inside of the fiberglass. The force of impact rippled along my spine, as my right shoulder, elbow, and hip crumpled against the unforgiving pavement like an accordion.
Did you know that a helmet cracking sounds a lot like an airbag going off in your ear?
I sat up in a daze, sounds were muffled, and my Garmin watch vibrated against my wrist; “Crash detected. Sending coordinates to emergency contacts in 10, 9, 8…” I canceled the SOS and noticed my thumb was hanging unnaturally and it hurt. I stared at it rather angrily thinking. “I tucked you to keep this very thing from happening while I was in midair!?”
X-rays would later reveal that much like my helmet I had one large break the length of the first bone of my thumb on the outside edge, with a spider web of 8 visible fractures on the other side and too many to count hairline fractures. Resulting in a shattered bone.
My helmet did its job. No brain injury. And after the initial ear ringing wore off, my buddy asked me what I wanted to do. I got back on my bike one-handed. “I said I was going to ride thirty miles today. We’re only at twenty-four.” Yes, it hurt to keep going. But pain was simply inevitable for the remainder of my day. No need to freak out about it.
My riding partner looked down, “I think we should get you to a hospital.”
“I agree. But after…”
“Your hand doesn’t look right.”
“Yeah. The only question is how many places did I break it?” I shrugged. “Come with me or don’t. Either way, I’m finishing this ride.”
He hung his head, “This is either the most badass moment I’ve ever seen or you’re batshit crazy.”
“Little of both,” I mumbled.
We finished and my Garmin read 30.29 miles. I went a little more than I had to to remind myself I could even if my hand hurt a little. The screen lit up with a trophy. I’d snagged a badge for “longest ride.” Go figure.
“Well, that will be the goal to beat after I get out of the cast.” I thanked my riding buddy and drove home, calling my husband to inform him our itinerary for the day needed tweaking.
Honoring my word to myself through sheer determination would prove to be an invaluable asset for what I was about to face. Not that I had a freakin’ clue that day as I planned how to make sure the kid’s Halloween wasn’t ruined by my dumbass mistake of rolling over a railroad track incorrectly. And that self-discipline I was practicing was about to run a gauntlet.
Six weeks later I was staring into the abyss of disability. The top hand surgeons in my area were throwing around words like frozen joints, 2% mobility, slow bone growth. And they never used the word "recovery." They were tactful like that.
When physical therapy started, my therapist asked me to state my PT goals to him.
"Full recovery," I replied without hesitation.
He laughed, "That's not possible. Set a realistic goal."
I was highly taken aback by his candor, but I didn't feel like arguing. "I'm a writer I want to be able to type on a keyboard."
He nodded. "I think I can get your pointer finger able to do that, as long as you put in the effort."
He was giving me one digit? He thought I could get to the point where I could chicken peck?
For a fraction of a moment, I felt crushed. But the badass woman that went 30.29 miles instead of calling it quits at 24 got pissed.
“Have any of your patients come back from this?”
“One. But he was a military man and he pushed through pain like it was nothing.” Message received. It takes Herculean effort and they didn’t think I was Hercules.
It only took two weeks to notice PT wasn’t helping. My therapist was absolutely right. With the tools available at PT, a full recovery was not possible.
However, I had a powerful military friend as well. One who had an uncanny way of showing up at perfect moments.
Thom Shea, a retired Navy SEAL trained me and his words were in my ear constantly, “Honor what you say you’ll do. Pain is just an excuse to quit. Don’t quit.” And he serendipitously challenged me in an Instagram video on the lowest day of my recovery.
"What can you do with a broken hand?" He stared straight at the camera like he was coming through it and I felt like I was back in his war room with him patiently waiting on my answer. The oddest question came to mind.
What if I tried knitting?
My inner critic scoffed. "How the hell are you going to grip the needles when your thumb can’t even touch the side of your pointer finger?”
The only way to answer that powerful what if was to try.
I dropped the needles probably a dozen times before I could even tie a slip knot to get started. My stitches were uneven. I had holes everywhere. It wasn't pretty.
But I did it.
After 30 minutes, I could painfully touch my thumb to my finger. I was onto something big.
Thom had taught me a simple formula for success, “Do it for 21 days. 10,000 iterations. Take 1 more step.”
Step One: 21 Days Straight
I knitted for 21 days at a time making slow but steady gains. Increasing my time from 30 minutes to 5 hours.
I created my own pattern, something to inspire me when I felt like giving up to that abyss. I made an afghan to honor the lessons Thom had spent his time teaching me. To honor the woman I set out to become. Along with the bravery of my heritage and no matter how long it took I would not quit.
Step Two: 10,000 Iterations
This is my least favorite part of the formula and it takes for however long it takes.
In my knitting, I'd often make a mistake I couldn't fix. I didn't have the dexterity to gently pull at a knot or find the right dropped stitch. I had to pull the stitches out entirely and start again.
68 times. Patience is an underrated skill set.
My outside-the-box solution yielded spectacular results. It took two years, seven months, and 986,470 stitches to complete my afghan of a pattern that only calls for 130,000. Roughly, 20, 21 Day Challenges to disrupt my ruts. It took about a year for my surgeons to release me. The bone was whole. Not that I was even close to my previous self yet. My fingers still shook when I tried to touch my thumb with each one. And my grip couldn’t be trusted. But I was getting better and had surpassed what was thought possible. Which brought me to…
Step Three: Take One More Step.
We bought the kids a pull-up bar for Christmas. My husband and son tried to out do each other. Lyla ambitiously climbed up a step stool and knocked ten out.
“Mom’s turn!” She excitedly turned to me then panicked glancing at my hand.
“Just for giggles, I’ll try.” I said as I gripped the bar. Pulled. Felt something tear in my abdomen. As my grip failed and I fell on my ass laughing and wincing.
“So that’s how it is?” I stared up.
Goal set.
I got to work targeting my core 21 days at a time. I got back in the water, started lifting, did hangs, and struggled with feeling stunted. My arms could only go as fast as my hand would let me, yet I stayed the course for 10,000 more iterations. And 18 months later I tried again.
My body shook. My chin barely rose above the bar before I dropped back to my feet. I did a happy dance in a circle to find sparkling amber-colored eyes watching, “Well, done, Mom!” Lyla squealed.
My teenage son walked in, “About time!”
Smart ass. I laughed and caught my breath.
My husband leaned in and kissed my cheek, “I knew you could do it.”
For perspective sake: I grew TWO whole people in my body with less effort than it took to train for a single pull-up! All the while continuing to knit.
My finished afghan is now a family favorite. To them, it’s a symbol of what can be achieved against devastating odds when one does not negotiate with excuses.
And on January 2, 2024, Lyla engaged this simple method herself to reach her own goals.
Proclamation: “I am a ballerina.”
Goal: Regain my balance and strengthen my core.
Plan: 50 pirouettes, 3 sets of 6 pull-ups (18 total), and stretching for 21 days straight.
Her first round improved her balance a little but her core mostly. Her teachers gave little corrections as they saw her come in early to practice. But she wasn’t satisfied with her results on Day 22.
“It takes as long as it takes” I reminded her as she struggled with patience.
Round two: 100 pirouettes, 3 rounds of 6 pull-ups, 20 minutes of stretching.
On Day 45 in class (two days after her challenge had ended) she executed a succession of amazingly balanced turns, no wobble, and she stuck the landing. Her normally schooled face that shines with concentration broke into a huge smile that reached her eyes.
Lyla ran to the observation area and found me, “Did you see that!?” She bounced on her tippy toes with her feet running in place. Sounds goofy but is quite graceful looking.
I grinned in return. “I sure did. Well done. Get back in there.”
I watched her take her place. My heart barely contained my gratitude. I have my hand back with 98% restored and there isn’t anything I can’t do. I wouldn’t want to get hurt again but when I look back I see the whole ordeal as a powerful gift.
How I responded to my injury set the tone for my family. It taught me my value. Made me take ownership of my future. I became a woman more aware that any inconsistency between my word and actions will potentially result in a loss of what my children think is possible for themselves.
I didn't want to write this blog post. Most days I see my afghan and shutter at the memories. However, my family convinced me that what I did was remarkable and noteworthy. So hopefully this will find its way into hands and minds who need the reminder to keep going while in the weeds. That your body will do what your mind asks of it. The impossible is achievable. And the limits are only set by your self-doubt.
The method of Three Simple Things never ends with the achievement of the goal. Rather, it is a way of living that leads to extraordinary accomplishments. That is, if you’re brave enough to set the bar high enough.
