How did I get here?

Jun 19

Written By Sarah

There is nothing like surgery to turn a fully functioning adult woman into a certified couch goblin. One day you’re moving through life with plans and errands and a sense of purpose, and the next you’re horizontal, wrapped in blankets, surrounded by snack debris, wondering if this is your villain origin story or your spiritual awakening.

Recovery is a strange little universe. Time stops behaving normally. Days stretch out like warm taffy. You start measuring progress in extremely scientific units like “number of times I stood up today” or “how many episodes I watched before my foot reminded me who is in charge.”

And with all that stillness comes thinking. So much thinking.

The kind you can’t outrun, out‑lift or out‑yoga your way through.

At first it’s small things.

Why does my surgical shoe look like it was designed by someone who hates joy?
How many pillows is too many pillows?
Why does my knee scooter have the energy of a chaotic sidekick in a fantasy novel?

But then the bigger questions sneak in.

What am I doing with my life?
What actually matters to me?
What kind of mark do I want to leave on the world, even if it’s a tiny one?

There is something about being forced to stop that makes you see everything more clearly. When you can’t move, your mind does the wandering for you. Mine wandered through old dreams, half‑finished ideas, hobbies I love, people I care about and the version of myself I want to grow into.

I didn’t come out of surgery with enlightenment or a five year plan. I came out with something quieter and maybe more important. A sense that life is short and weird and tender, and that I want to fill mine with things that feel real. Things that make me laugh. Things that make me curious. Things that make me feel alive, even when I’m stuck on the couch with crumbs on my shirt.