It’s been a while since I’ve used this space, but I feel something bubbling up in me that I wanted to share and put into words.
I’ve been easing back into my schedule little by little, and I’m finding myself answering the question, “How are you doing???” several times during each outing. So often we breeze past that question with an easy, “Doing good!” response. Lately, my answer has felt complicated and honest. I know that many of the people asking me aren’t expecting a generic response—they truly care about the heart of how I’m doing.
Today I am just shy of 9 weeks post–hip labrum repair surgery! I can't believe it. I am so glad to be off of crutches and walking again! I’ve been on some longer walks and have begun some resistance work, and overall, I am so grateful for the progress!! If you see me you may say wow!! Look how well you're doing!
And in many ways, that’s true.
I’ve been told this healing is a long road, especially with soft tissue, and that it can take six months to a year to feel like myself again. While the outward signs of recovery are encouraging, the thing that is not visible is my body is tired and still doing the important work of healing. The schedule fills back up, life resumes, and yet my capacity hasn’t fully returned. I can do more—but it costs me.
Before surgery, I managed a lot. Maybe some would even say I’m a high-capacity person. So for January, I intentionally built in space for slower living. That was a good decision. And yet, I’ve realized that what looks like “slow” for me can still feel exhausting. I keep asking myself, “How can I do this healing thing efficiently? How can I get to the other side faster?” But the truth is, I can’t. There is no shortcut.
The wrestle has been physical, but also deeply internal. How am I doing? So well—and also, my body is tight, my muscles are sore always and I am mentally and physically tired. Everything is progressing well, and I’m thankful for that. Still, I can’t rush this process. My body is working hard, and I feel it.
When I thought about having all of this “down time,” I imagined all the things I could catch up on. Maybe I’d read a book. Maybe someone could bring me a drawer I could organize. I could finally get better at planning our meals. I even thought I’d have time for profound thinking—but really, I didn’t have much to ponder, and my mental capacity just wasn’t there. While I did work through a list I called “things to do while I’m sitting,” there was nothing notable about my accomplishments. The productivity I expected just didn’t show up in the way I had imagined. Turns out healing has required more surrender than any of my efforts, and that has been humbling.
Last weekend, I found myself in an emotional place of wanting to do something, but being too tired to do it—and not even knowing what that something was. My kids kept seeing me cry and worried that I was sad, but I wasn’t sad—just restless. I sat down with my girls and traced some horses on a light table, and we had the best time. This kind of art feels “elementary” compared to things I’ve done creatively, yet my heart was full the entire time, enjoying being with my girls. We traced horses, and then after that, I used colored pencils to color a coloring page. Later that night, after such a sweet afternoon, I looked around my house—my kitchen was a mess, and I left it that way, knowing that time with them was the greater thing. It was what I needed, however basic my art was, it was all I had the energy to give.
Later, I actually gifted my dad one of my coloring pages that kept reminding me of him. It felt juvenile and a little "embarassing" to give that, but I truly put all my effort and shading techniques into it, and it became a gift from my heart. As I gave it to him, I was reminded of a story from the Bible in Mark 12:41–43:
"Jesus sat down opposite the place where the offerings were put and watched the crowd putting their money into the temple treasury. Many rich people threw in large amounts. But a poor widow came and put in two very small copper coins, worth only a few cents. Calling his disciples to him, Jesus said, “Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put more into the treasury than all the others. They all gave out of their wealth; but she, out of her poverty, put in everything—all she had to live on.”
That story has stayed close to me recently. Jesus said she gave more than anyone else because she gave out of her poverty, not her abundance.
I’ve been brought to a place where I have less to offer than I’m accustomed to, and yet I’m discovering that God meets me there. When my strength is limited, what I give is more honest, more dependent, and more real.
I've been thinking so much of my friends who walk through long seasons of illness or quiet battles unseen, and the courage it takes to show up each day. I am thankful for greater understanding their lives better and grow in compassion towards others.
Lord willing, this season will not last forever. But for now, I am grateful—for the slowing, for the refining, and for what God is revealing in me as I learn to rest in Him. My healing is slow and steady, both in body and in spirit. And I am learning that what I offer—even when it feels small, unfinished, or weak—is precious to Him when it comes from my heart. I am discovering that God is not asking me for more strength, more effort, or more striving—He is asking me to rest in Him and that, I am learning, is enough.
