Still Showing Up
Finding strength and identity beyond physical limitations while choosing to keep showing up for life.
Still Showing Up
Who am I when I can no longer do some of the things that have always been part of my life?
That question has stayed with me over the last several months more than I ever expected it to. I did not set out to write about identity, and I certainly did not expect to spend this much time reflecting on it. But life has a way of slowing us down just enough that we finally have the opportunity to ask the questions we were too busy to ask before.
I've always been someone who stayed busy. If you've followed my writing for any length of time, you've probably read The Grass Doesn't Grow Under My Feet. That title was not an exaggeration. I've always enjoyed learning, building, networking, exploring new places, hiking, dancing, and saying yes to opportunities.
Looking back, movement has always been part of who I am, both physically and mentally. Then one unexpected moment changed the pace of my life, and I suddenly found myself moving much more slowly than I ever imagined.
What surprised me most was not the pain itself. Pain demands your attention, but it was not what occupied my thoughts. I kept coming back to identity. I wondered if slowing down meant I was somehow becoming a different person.
Would needing a cane, sitting down more often, or asking Carl to help me at an event become the first thing people noticed about me? More importantly, would I begin seeing myself that way?
I've carried enough challenges throughout my life to know that every difficult season has the potential to hand us another label. We do not get to choose all of those labels, but we do get to decide how much space they occupy in our lives. That has become one of the most important lessons I've learned over the years.
I do not ignore reality, and I certainly do not pretend everything is fine when it is not. If you ask how I am doing, you will probably hear me say, "I've been better." That's an honest answer, but it is not the whole story because there is always more to my life than whatever challenge I am facing at the moment.
The other day, I found myself standing in Walmart deciding whether to use one of the electric scooters. I hesitated, not because I questioned whether it would help, but because I wondered what complete strangers might think.
Then I caught myself smiling.
It suddenly occurred to me that I was giving far too much attention to people who did not know my story. I got on the scooter, finished my shopping, and realized something that has stayed with me ever since:
Participating in my life has become far more important than protecting my pride.
That realization reminded me of another day when I searched through a closet looking for my old cane. It had been packed away after a previous health challenge, and I remember feeling relieved when I found it because I knew it would help me.
That surprised me.
I was not really fighting the cane. Somewhere underneath, I was fighting the idea that accepting help meant becoming someone different. Over time, I have realized the cane does not define me any more than a pair of hiking boots defined me.
They are both simply tools that help me move through different seasons of life.
There are still moments when grief catches me off guard. A few days ago, I found myself crying because I realized I may never dance the way I used to.
Not because I am a particularly good dancer. Anyone who has ever seen me at a concert can probably confirm that. I simply love to dance. I love hearing a live band, getting caught up in the music, and moving without giving a second thought to what my body is doing.
I miss hiking for much the same reason. It was never just about reaching the top of a trail. It was about breathing the fresh air, taking in the beauty around me, and enjoying the freedom of simply moving without thinking about every step.
I've never believed that strength means pretending those losses do not matter. We have to allow ourselves to grieve. We have to feel sadness when it comes and let ourselves cry without apologizing for it.
Emotions are not meant to be ignored, but I do not believe they are meant to become permanent residents either.
Feel them. Let them wash through you. Then slowly begin letting them go.
I've learned there is a difference between honoring grief and allowing it to become the place where we live.
I know that because I've lived on both sides of it.
Years ago, during a difficult rheumatoid arthritis flare, I stopped participating in my own life. I canceled plans, stayed home, and gradually slipped into depression because I was not really living anymore.
I was existing.
That realization changed me.
I promised myself that if another difficult season came along, I would do everything I could to keep participating, even if participation looked different than it once had.
My grandmother is 101 years old, and she will gladly tell you she is frustrated that she needs a walker. She also gets up every day and keeps moving because that is who she is.
Watching her has reminded me that resilience is not about pretending nothing hurts. It is about deciding that life is still worth showing up for.
I have also watched people I love respond differently to difficult circumstances, and those experiences shaped me just as much. They helped me realize the kind of person I wanted to become when life eventually asked the same question of me.
When people describe me as resilient or inspirational, it makes me smile because I hope they are seeing someone who is still learning how to adapt without losing herself—not someone who has simply avoided struggle.
Surviving and continuing to live are not the same thing, and choosing the second one is, I have come to believe, one of the most important choices any of us can make.
I still hope I will hike again, and I have every intention of dancing the next time I hear a great band, even if I have to move a little more carefully than I once did.
I may use a cane. I may eventually use walking sticks. If another scooter helps me enjoy an afternoon instead of staying home, I will happily use that too because none of those things get to decide who I am.
Life changes all of us eventually. It changes our bodies, our plans, and even our dreams. What it does not get to change is the person we choose to be.
That is a decision I still get to make every morning when I put my feet on the floor.
And it is one I will continue making for as long as I am able.
