My Injury Led to My Awakening

I’ve been skiing for 35 years, and for the past 20, it has been my full-time profession. In all that time, I’ve been fortunate to never have missed a day on the mountain because of injury—until now.

Risk of injury was part of it, I knew that. What I didn’t understand was the impact of losing the ability to do the things I loved for over a year.

At first, I was in denial. 

It was “ski week”, so I was working every day—long hours on the hill, no time off. There was no crash, no dramatic fall, and no obvious moment when something went wrong. Just a sharp pinch in my hip when I came inside and sat down at the end of one day.  The next few days I just thought that I was sore. That it would go away when I had some time off to rest. But it was the heart of the season, and I didn’t have any days off. 

I started taking painkillers before work, then before sleep. “No pain, no gain” and “Pain is weakness leaving the body” —messages from my childhood athletic career came to mind. Not to mention the pressure I put on myself as a female leader working in a male-dominated industry—I had to show up, be strong, and push through. Or so I thought. Until the pain became so severe that I could barely walk.

Finally, a colleague encouraged me to seek medical care. The diagnosis was a torn ligament in my hip, an impingement, and muscular tendinopathy. There had been no major crash. I wasn’t doing something cool. It was just repetitive movement, overuse, and not listening to my body when it was trying to tell me something until I hit the breaking point.

The prognosis was uncertain. There was a 50/50 chance it could heal without surgery. Surgery itself came with no guarantees. I chose the conservative route first, which meant six weeks of rest.

Rest was unfamiliar territory for me, and honestly, I wasn’t very good at it. Sure, I stopped skiing, but I didn’t realize that walking, household chores, and everyday movement were still making things worse. After repeated setbacks, my doctor gave me stricter instructions—sit, slow down, and stop doing more than necessary for six full weeks. I had never done that before.

I found my way into a new yoga studio in town called The Peace Offering. I couldn’t participate in the fast-paced yoga classes I normally preferred, so instead I found myself lying on a mat—listening, breathing, reflecting, and being introduced to entirely new modalities that I never would have considered before.

I tried everything I could to avoid surgery—physical therapy, chiropractic care, red light therapy, Tension and Trauma Releasing Exercises, cupping, bodywork, myofascial release, sound healing, reiki, somatics, Epsom salt baths, ice, heat, supplements, topical creams, positive thoughts and good vibes—anything that might help.

Though some progress came, six months later I was still in pain every day. With another ski season approaching, I had to accept that I had done everything I could. And it took trying everything I could before I was ready to choose surgery.

I was fortunate to find a surgeon I liked and trusted. Recovery was estimated at five to twelve months, so I decided to move forward sooner rather than later. I had already lost six months doing the things I loved. I was tired of living in constant pain.

The surgery itself went well. However, once inside, they found more damage than imaging had shown. In addition to repairing the tear, they had to perform a microfracture procedure. This meant that when I woke up, I was non-weight-bearing and immobile for eight weeks.

The first week was rough. Thankfully my mom and my partner were there to care for me. Once the initial surgical pain eased, something unexpected happened—for the first time in months, I wasn’t in constant pain. That alone felt like relief.

For the next two months, I had little choice but to sit still and heal. But I did have a choice in how I used that time. And I didn’t want to waste it with binge watching and video games. 

Instead of waiting to recover, I enrolled in a life, health, and wellness coach training program—a decision that would ultimately change my life.

I trusted that my body would recover physically. I was motivated to follow my rehab protocol, eat well, avoid alcohol, and do everything I could to return to skiing.

But I also realized something deeper— if I healed my body physically without addressing my mental and emotional state, when I recovered I wouldn’t be truly whole. And if I went back to the way I was living without changing anything, I would end up with another injury.

That was when the real work began. For 35 years, I had identified as a skier. My life, relationships, and career had all been built around that identity. Without skiing, I was forced to ask myself a difficult question: “Who was I?”

I spent months in coaching sessions, therapy, personal development courses, meditation, journaling, and community circles. I read books, listened to podcasts, reflected deeply, and began learning how to sit with myself in ways I never had before. This kind of work is deep, and it is not easy. It requires honesty, patience, and a willingness to look inward in ways that can feel uncomfortable.

I’m still on that path. But now I can honestly say that my injury became one of the greatest awakenings of my life. Without it, I may never have stopped. I may never have slowed down enough to truly meet myself. And that awakening has changed everything.