The Messy Middle Not who I was, not trying to be someone else—just learning to be

I used to think recovery meant getting back to who I was. That if I just worked hard enough, I could reclaim the athlete, the routine, the life I knew.

But it’s not like that.
Not after this.

One minute, I was in race season, building toward Ironman 70.3 Jones Beach, planning for a visit from a dear friend from Tucson, Arizona. We were going to race together and then explore New York City, her first time ever seeing it. I was excited to show her my corner of the world, to share the finish line and the skyline. I felt strong, grounded, full of anticipation.

Everything changed in an instant.

The crash didn’t just stop my season. It shattered the shape of my life.

This isn’t like healing from a cryoablation to fix AFib. This is a forever kind of recovery. One that lives in my arm that doesn’t even feel like it’s mine, and in a leg that moves differently than it used to. There’s a deep, bone-level ache that lingers—and it shows up in all the tiny, invisible moments.

Even scratching an itch has become a full-body creative effort. Limited range of motion? Yes. Ingenious improvisation? Absolutely.

My brain keeps expecting Maximus Decimus Meridius… but what I get is, I’m Jeff. If you know, you know.

And swimming, something I still love, has become a bit of a comedy show. Swim form? Yeah, think “small fin Nemo.” Awkward, painful, humbling, and often hilarious.

The short hair came out of necessity, something practical just to make life a lot easier. I couldn’t manage it, and let’s be real, my husband and son, while they tried their best, and it was funny, neither are my personal hair stylists. Almost a year later, I’ve decided to keep it. But I still catch my reflection sometimes and think, Who is that? I don’t always recognize myself, and I’m learning that’s part of this, too.

I look fine.
But nothing is the same.

And that creates a strange kind of loneliness, because when the dust settles and my own world and outside world moves on... I’m still here.
In a body that’s been through trauma.
In a mind that’s trying to process what that means.

I’m not a victim. I choose, daily, quietly, to be a victor instead.

Therapy has helped me understand this: I don’t have to fast-track my return. I don’t have to carve out the exact identity I had in “The Before.” I’m allowed to grieve what was. I’m allowed to feel the void.

And I’m allowed to just be right now.

And while I don’t know exactly what’s ahead, I do know this:

I’m not who I was. But I’m still here. And in many ways, I’m becoming something new, something different, and even something stronger, in ways that can’t be measured by pace or performance.

This journey has always been about silver linings.

Now, almost one year post-crash, that clarity is becoming clearer. I feel more grounded in this new chapter of life. There’s acceptance here. Resilience. Curiosity. A spark of excitement I didn’t expect. Emotional maturity is evolving. So is my identity as an athlete. I continue to learn to live in this body, not in spite of it, but with it.

And for the first time in a long while… I feel ready.
Ready to open TrainingPeaks.
Ready to set a goal.
More to come on that in the next blog.

I’m not sharing this to be dramatic or to invite pity. I’m not sharing this for sympathy.
I’m sharing it because a lot of us are carrying stuff, injuries, stress, grief, life shifts, and all the behind-the-scenes BS no one talks about. Some of it you can see. Most of it you can’t.

If that’s you, know this:
You’re not alone.
You don’t have to do this alone.

I see you. Even if you’re stuck halfway into a sports bra- it’s a daily thing for me, using sweary sentence enhancers, or ugly crying in your car between errands, I see you.

I’m walking this road with you. And always moving forward.

Thanks for being here.
Keep SHINING—loudly and like an extra spicy salsa!