1 Year Bike Crash-aversary: From Crash to clarity

A year ago, during the Challenge NJ State Tri, I crashed my bike, my body, and, because the universe has a sense of humor, right into a fire hydrant. Talk about a plot twist. Of all the places I could have landed, there it was, waiting like some cosmic cartoon prop, and I slammed straight into a very hard pause button on life. Today, Monday, July 21st, marks one year since that crash. I’ve already shared the gritty details before, this isn’t about retelling that. This is about what came after.

The year feels like a blur, like it flew right by, and, somehow, like it’s been a decade. I’m still healing. I’m still figuring things out. But I’m here. And I’m different.

Something I am still reflecting on is how I responded to all of it. It felt like I was living it and watching it all at once, it still feels like that at times. Yes, I cried. Yes, I had my moments. But mostly, I was steady. Matter-of-fact. My usual “handle it” mode shifted into something deeper, like a gear I didn’t know I had. And it hasn’t really left. I can’t tell if that’s shock, growth, or just who I truly am when life gets loud, maybe all of it, but it feels permanent now, and I am not running from it.

And this past year wasn’t just about surviving. It was full of unexpected plot twists, the kind that made the story so much more than one of pain and recovery.

I chopped off my long hair because one arm couldn’t handle the upkeep… and honestly, I think I’ll keep it for a while. It’s comedy gold in the mornings. Some days, I catch a glimpse in the mirror and swear I’m channeling Christopher Walken hair. Other days, to tame it, I brush it back and it screams “Sopranos extra.” And sometimes, it’s like static electricity has completely possessed my body. It’s its own kind of entertainment.

Along the way, I found new ways to move, small things, big things, that made me stronger in ways I never expected. And I laughed, a lot. I named the dent in my quad “Quadsimodo” and still roll my eyes that a fire hydrant was what took me out. Humor became medicine, and still is. Around here, I call the whole saga ArmaLeggedon.

I learned to celebrate small wins, to slow down without quitting, and to keep saying yes to life even when it doesn’t look the way I thought it would.

And let’s talk about therapy, because yep, I went there. Turns out, even with all the tools in my life toolbox, the ones I earned from living, and the extra ones this sport gives us (because, honestly, endurance athletes basically collect coping mechanisms like race medals), I still needed something more. “The After” made that loud and clear. And I’ll say this out loud, because I know a lot of people carry narratives about therapy. You know the ones: Why can’t you just figure it out yourself? What will people think? Isn’t therapy just sitting in a room sobbing into tissues while talking about your childhood? (Spoiler: it’s not.) Most of us are just scared of the unknown, so we invent some wild worst-case scenario in our heads and call it reality.

Here’s the truth: therapy has been one of the best things I’ve ever done for myself. And it’s not just about digging into the heavy stuff (though, sure, sometimes you go there). Some days, I talk about the good things, joy, gratitude, or how to navigate something at work or life with more care. You don’t need to have a roadmap, a plan, or the “right words” to start. You just show up and let someone guide you, kind of like having a coach in this sport, it is not just the sport and the athlete, it’s their whole amazing life in and out of multisport.

I used to think, “I should have done this years ago.” But really, I did it when I was finally ready to show up for myself, fully. The return on that investment was immediate. It feels like releasing a pressure valve I didn’t know was about to blow. Therapy helps me process, regulate, and feel like I actually have some control in the chaos. It gives me a sense of safety when self-doubt and anxiety shows up uninvited. And most importantly, it helps me show up better, for myself, and for the world. Plus, there are no finish lines or PRs here, which is oddly liberating.

And while therapy became a huge anchor, so did the people who crossed my path this past year. One of the best gifts of this whole ordeal are the humans I met and leaned on because of the crash, encounters that happened organically, simply because of the situation. Some were fleeting moments, others stayed for the long haul, but each left a mark.

There was my very caring and brilliant arm surgeon, who looked at me after operating and said, “We’re going to be very good friends for the next nine months to a year.” (He wasn’t wrong.) My leg surgeon was just as memorable, not only talented but genuinely kind. We even had a strangely lighthearted moment in the OR when he was using a suction wand to drain my gigantic hematoma. I was wide awake, chatting while a pretty big tube ran across my chest, commenting on all the blood and chunks getting sucked out like we were just having coffee. The nurses thought I was odd, but that maximum matter-of-fact side of me had fully taken over. Maybe it’s a little “Abby Normal” to be that unfazed, but hey, I like grossology.

My physical therapist was another standout. This amazing human didn’t just help put my body back together, he helped my mind, too. Early on, he found out I had never seen The Office. His jaw literally dropped. Being a superfan, he insisted I watch it, and honestly? It changed my life. (I’m still not sure if I’m more grateful for his PT skills or the Michael Scott and Dwight Schrute quotes.)

Beyond the professionals, there were the people who wrapped tightly around me from near and far, my local triathlon family, friends in North Carolina, Arizona, and other corners of my life, plus many on social media. They gave me TLC, encouragement, and constant hugs (virtual and otherwise) when I needed it most.

Most importantly, my home base team: my husband and son. My rocks. The two people who’ve lived with me through every bit of this. There were days I know they were beyond tired of it, the change in our daily lives, the high level of care, having to carry a lot more, and of me being in pain, frustrated, or just over it all. And it’s still not over; even after “graduating” from PT last week, there’s so much more ahead, just a new chapter of it. But these two? They keep loving me and taking care of me through every high and low, showing up and handling it, and I keep loving them and taking care of them, too, as we keep navigating this crazy thing called life together.

This journey breathed courage into me. It pushed me to finally pursue things I had left in a holding pattern, and this unexpected detour gave me the time and space to bring them to life. I faced myself in ways I hadn’t before, sometimes literally, staring into my own eyes and realizing this sport, as much as I love it, doesn’t define my entire being. I had let it take up too much real estate.

Nothing in life is constant. You have to be willing to bless and release, to pivot, to explore and nurture other pieces of yourself. Feeling the absence of something that once anchored so much of my identity and lifestyle forced me to reinvent, reevaluate, and reshape the internal property lines of my life, deciding what stays, what goes, and what gets room to grow.

And as I sit with all of this, this wild, weird, painful, beautiful year, I find myself smiling brightly. Smiling at the strength I didn’t know I had. At the tribe that showed up for me, my people near and far, my triathlon community, my caregivers, my husband and son. All of them walked with me through this. That love carried me. Their support stitched pieces of me back together.

This year didn’t change who I am at my core, but it did amplify it. My capacity for grace, patience, and empathy, for others and for myself, feels deeper now, steadier. And carrying that forward, as I step into whatever comes next, feels like one of the most lasting gifts this year has given me.

So, a year later, here I am. Still a work in progress. Still healing. Still laughing. Still smiling. Still growing.

This wasn’t just a crash.
It was a plot twist.
And somehow, a really good one.

Thanks for being here.

Keep SHINING!