I sat in my car the other day, gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turned white.

I had just finished another physical therapy session—another round of pushing my body to do things that once felt effortless, things I took for granted. I was exhausted, physically and mentally. My leg refused to cooperate. My progress, which once felt promising, now felt stagnant. And for the first time in a long time, I let myself admit something I had been afraid to say out loud.

What if I never get back to 100%?

I have fought with everything in me to recover. I have poured my heart into every movement, every exercise, every painful repetition. I followed the plan, trusted the doctors, held on to hope. And yet, here I am, months later, still staring down the same limitations, still waking up to the same frustration, still wondering why my body refuses to cooperate with my dreams.

I have asked God all the hard questions.

Why me? Why now?
What did I do to deserve this?
Will I ever run again?
Will I ever play competitive golf again?
Will I ever feel like myself again?

The worst part? I don’t have answers.

And if I’m being really honest, that terrifies me.

Wrestling with the Unknown

Before all of this, I thought I understood faith. I thought I understood resilience. I thought I knew what it meant to trust God with my future. But what happens when the future you imagined slowly slips away? What happens when the timeline of your healing doesn’t match the one you so desperately prayed for?

At first, I fought back.

I told myself that with enough hard work, enough grit, I could fix this. I could push through. I could make my body bend to my will. I held onto hope with both hands, convincing myself that any day now, things would turn around.

And then the weeks turned into months.

The optimism began to fade. The “you will recover” turned into “you may recover.” And then, slowly, into “you need to face reality.”

I could hear it in their voices. See it in their eyes. The belief they once had in my comeback wasn’t as strong as it had been before. And if they were losing faith, then what was I supposed to do?

I have never been someone who settles for anything less than 100%. But for the first time in my life, I am being forced to consider the possibility that this—the body I wake up in every day—might be my new reality.

Anger, Jealousy, and Grief

I wish I could tell you that I’ve handled all of this with grace, that I’ve taken each setback with unwavering faith. But the truth?

I have been angry. I have been jealous. I have grieved in ways I never expected to.

I have been angry at the situation. Angry at my body. Angry at myself for putting my trust in a surgeon. Angry at God for allowing this to happen.

I have been jealous of my friends who get to live “normal” lives. I scroll through Instagram and see people running, playing sports, moving without thinking, and I feel this deep, aching resentment. I see people taking for granted the very things I would give anything to do again.

And I have grieved. Oh, how I have grieved. I have grieved the life I thought I would have. The future I once pictured so clearly. The version of myself that felt limitless.

I know grief is usually associated with loss—of a loved one, of something tangible. But I have come to realize that losing a part of yourself, losing the version of yourself that you once knew, is its own kind of mourning.

Where is God in All of This?

Some days, I feel Him so close, like a hand on my shoulder, a whisper in my ear reminding me that I am not alone.

Other days, He feels distant. And those days are the hardest.

I know God is good. I know His plans for me are greater than anything I can imagine. But when you’re walking through the valley, when the weight of your reality is suffocating, it’s hard to see past the storm.

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” 

– Psalm 34:18

Lately, I’ve found myself coming back to that verse. Not because it magically makes everything better, but because it reminds me that God is near, even when I don’t feel it.

He isn’t waiting for me to have it all together. He isn’t waiting for me to stop being angry, to stop questioning, to stop hurting. He is right here, in the middle of my mess, holding me even when I don’t have the strength to hold onto Him.

Choosing to Keep Going

I don’t know what my future holds. I don’t know if I’ll ever run again. I don’t know if I’ll ever swing a golf club the way I once did.

But I do know this: I am not giving up.

Even on the days when it feels pointless. Even on the days when the pain outweighs the progress. Even on the days when I wonder if God is still listening.

I will keep showing up.

I will keep fighting.

Because maybe my story looks different than I imagined. But maybe—just maybe—there’s still beauty here. Maybe my pain will become someone else’s encouragement. Maybe my weakness is the very thing that will showcase God’s strength.

“My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” 

– 2 Corinthians 12:9

If you are reading this and you’re struggling too—if you feel like your body has betrayed you, if you feel like no one understands, if you feel like you are drowning in the unknown—please hear me:

You are not alone.

God is still working, even when you can’t see it.

Hope still exists, even when it feels impossible.

Your story isn’t over.

And neither is mine.

Stay Salty my Friends