A 3-part series on injury and the stages of grief
The first time I felt that lightning bolt of pain in my back and the weakness running down my leg, my mind scrambled to make sense of it. I knew what it was. I had seen it a hundred times in patients. But still, one thought pushed its way through all the others:
“It’s not that bad. I’ll be fine in a few days.”
That’s denial.
Whether you’re a high-performing athlete or someone who just tweaked their back lifting the laundry basket, the first stage of injury often isn’t physical—it’s psychological. We downplay, deflect, rationalize. We deny.
When Reality Doesn’t Feel Real
The moment an injury happens, something inside us resists. Maybe it’s a sharp pop that leaves you frozen. Maybe it’s a tight ache that won’t let go after a workout. Whatever form it takes, the immediate instinct is usually the same: keep moving, keep going, keep pretending.
You tell yourself:
- “I’ve been sore before.”
- “I just need to stretch it out.”
- “A good night’s sleep and I’ll be back to normal.”
That’s the mind trying to protect you from disruption—because acknowledging an injury means acknowledging limitation, change, maybe even fear. And if you’re like me, that’s not an easy thing to face.
Denial Feels Safer Than Acceptance
Especially for those of us used to being strong, capable, or in control, denial offers a short-term escape. You get to pretend you’re still functioning at 100%. You get to keep your identity intact—at least for a little while.
But denial comes at a cost. If you keep pushing through pain, hoping it will magically resolve, you risk turning an acute, treatable issue into a chronic one. And the longer you avoid reality, the harder it becomes to heal—physically or emotionally.
Injury and Identity
Part of what hurts so much about an injury is what it takes from you: your routine, your independence, your sense of normal. That loss can feel deeply personal—especially if movement is how you find peace, strength, or purpose.
When you’re in denial, you don’t just reject the injury. You reject the idea that your identity could be vulnerable. And that makes asking for help feel like weakness. I’ve been there. It isn’t.
The Shift
Eventually, reality has a way of catching up. The pain doesn’t go away. You start noticing what you can’t do. Putting on socks is harder. You avoid picking up your kids. You stop training. You start compensating. And slowly, the truth sets in:
“This isn’t going away on its own.”
That realization—quiet, humbling, necessary—is the beginning of the healing process.