Falling Back on What I Know

This is what life looks like lately. There are are worse ways to spend my time.

A spectacular wipeout on black ice – not 10 feet from our front door –- set me off on a slower start to 2026 than I’d anticipated. 

After spending 2024 rehabbing a genetic (I think) sacroiliac (SI) injury that has plagued me since I was 16, I went full-tilt in 2025 doing the active things I love: ran the Syracuse Half Marathon again, waded into the murky waters of Onondaga County’s Jamesville Reservoir for open-water swim practice, churned my way 1.2 miles through the even murkier waters of Sandusky Bay as part of a relay team in the Ohio 70.3 triathlon, had a blast hiking a 20-mile Mammoth March with dear friends, wandered in Lapland with my childhood bestie and wobbled 25 miles on a new road bike that had spent 2024 gathering dust as my SI joint healed. 

Then in December, I fractured two vertebrae thanks to arena-slick ice lurking in our driveway under a half-inch of Central New York’s trademark lake-effect snow. There went the four races I’d signed up for in 2026. There went winter spin classes on the bike. There went an aggressive winter swim plan and my twice-weekly gym workouts. And both my part-time jobs.

And part of my retirement identity. I was the one who just turned 70 and never stopped moving. 

Yes, it is temporary. People suffer much worse and more painful setbacks so whining is, perhaps, undue. But at this age, putting life on hold for 12 weeks feels like losing a significant chunk of whatever good time is left to me. My self-diagnosed attention deficit struggles with being still. 

Within two days of my injury, books started piling up – some loaners, some gifts. My family and friends offered a long list of titles they had loved. By comparison, not a single person suggested a TV show or movie that I should watch to pass the time while my compressed thoracic vertebrae (T2 and T6 for the orthopedically minded among my readers) took their sweet time healing. My people know me well. 

Then my friend Hattie made a suggestion that was one of the kindest compliments I’ve ever received: “Do what you do best. Write.” Thanks, Hattie!

So here I am. It’s time to get thoughts out of my head before it implodes. Writing my way out of confusion, anger and boredom is a habit that’s been with me as long as my SI joint has been a problem. I’ll inflict my words here on whomever cares to read them. If I’m brave enough, I’ll follow the advice of one of my sheroes, writer Anne Lamott:  “You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should’ve behaved better.” 

So, my project for 2026 is to shove some life into this blog. I am putting my intention here to hold myself accountable. 

Happy New Year, all. And avoid black ice!