Almost a week ago, I sat on the sidewalk in front of our Jewish Community Center with my Toastmaster’s speech in one hand, and my scraped hand on the sidewalk trying to comprehend what just happened.

I had fallen and slipped on an icy sidewalk. I sat in the rain for 60 seconds, trying to push myself up and to figure out what to do. I couldn’t reach my cell. I couldn’t move my back or side. I chirped something inaudible, but nothing came out. Nothing could be heard.

People just walked by nonchalantly chirping on their cells looking straight ahead of them. I was just a foot away from them, possibly less. Nobody noticed a drenched person. Or somebody struggling to get up. Nobody said a word.

It reminds me of what it feels like to be silenced. To be the “other” and even reminds me of how an entire world can ignore you. Like how the world behaved during the Holocaust.

At first, I couldn’t move and then I pushed myself up one hand first and then the other. I was willed to get up, refusing to play the role of the victim. It was only after crossing the street that I realized I had been injured. That I would suffer from lack of true recollection where pain lodges in memory forcing it to forget and move on. 

For a week I went to doctors, and took painkillers, but nothing helped. I couldn’t sleep for more than a few hours at a time without thinking about the pain. My body couldn’t endure laughing, smiling, coughing, talking loudly, shouting, and even yawning. Forget sneezing! What an inhuman way to live, right?

Finally a good friend suggested seeing a chiropractor. I thought, “what the heck? It’s better than taking pain medications all the time.” I also went for x-rays. Turned out I sustained a major injury to the rib, (which I kind of knew) and had developed a cracked rib, pinched nerves, inflammed muscles and tissue, inner bleeding, and a muscle spasm. The good news is that I got some relief and support. The bad news is that the cracked rib would take six weeks to heal.

Instead of going to the gym, now my weekly schedule evolved around chiropractor visits and buying medicine and homeopathic treatments that were useless. At work, I walked around with an ice-bandage and a special belt.

I couldn’t bend down most of the time, so the house became super messy. My kids know how I hate messy spaces, but we don’t live in a museum. At the park, my two year old demanded I put her in the swing on a glorious day at the park. then she cried for me to take her out. By the time I came home, I was crawling on all fours to the bed — yep, you guessed it. Another ice-pack.

By the second week, I was still in the same debilitating pain. I started doubting my body’s ability to heal. It just wasn’t happening. In my journal I asked, “Can my body heal? Do I have what it takes?”

At some point the pain was so bad, I sat up in the bed and thought, “Well, I might as well die today because I don’t feel like a human being. And if I do die today, did I manage to create the life that I really love?”

So I began taking stock of my life. Relationships. Family. Food. Work. I purged my contact list. Decluttered. Reorganized. Consolidated. Started becoming even more mindful of what I put in my body. Reinvisioned my life without teaching and how I could replenish that lost income as I develop and refine my exit strategy.

If I could open myself to possibility, then couldn’t I take more baby steps in believing in my body’s ability to heal?

Yesterday, I shared on my weekly sisterhood group call spearheaded by Emily Cassel insights and feelings I’ve been experiencing especially in light of this week’s spring break. The spaciousness invited me to create a new sense of being. I know my sisters are holding that sacred space for me as I will for them.

It was from this place of spaciousness that I started to orient myself back to my body. The pain was still there, but much less. I could tolerate movements ever than before. In the bath I started sobbing. It felt good to trust. That moment happens when you just allow yourself to trust. And you know that you’re going to be all right. It isn’t going to be as bad as you thought it would be.

As I’m writing this, I’m enjoying my last day of spring break and rethinking how I can continue creating a new sense of being from this spaciousness. Yesterday was the first full day without all the tape on my back holding all the bones of my ribs in place. Without the tape, I feel a new sense of appreciation for my ribs and freedom. I have yet another chiropractor visit today and he’ll decide whether to tape me up for the weekend.

Have you ever went through a life-transforming experience? What were some of the challenges and experiences?