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It didn’t happen during a long run or a race or some overly ambitious strength workout I discovered somewhere.
Nope. I injured my knee crawling on the floor, trying to foam roll my back after a hormonal ambush that left me feeling like I’d aged a three decades overnight. Seriously…crawling!
My lower back had seized up — one of those “breathe through it or scream” kind of spasms that stuck around for the weekend that seem to come standard with midlife and perimenopause. I already was regularly exhausted, foggy, inflamed, uncomfortable in my skin, and now? Crawling across the floor to feed the cat and relieve my spine. And in the middle of that very glamorous, very everyday moment — something shifted in my knee. Something that wouldn’t un-shift.
Really, I didn’t even think it was anything as I didn’t notice the pain until the back suddenly was as good as nearly new a few days later.
I’d later learn I had torn my meniscus. I also had underlying arthritis, which had gone undetected until now. Surgery wasn’t an option — or at least, not a good one due to where the tear was and the arthritis. Removing part of the meniscus (which is what is done), could actually make the arthritis worse. So, no surgery. No quick fix. And, it turned out, no more running — at least not the way I had known it. I will also note here that surgery is typically an option for many, unless other issues; and the meniscus can heal without as well. The bigger picture of the injury, arthritis, and other challenges is my obstacle. Many can return to their normal activities after recovery.
What made this all even harder — and honestly, more emotionally loaded — is that I had already been struggling to come back from something big. Something scary. Something that had taken a piece of me I hadn’t fully gotten back yet.
A bike crash.
It happened a while back, and it wasn’t minor, at least to me. I broke my teeth. My chin. My jaw (I found out later). I hit hard — physically and emotionally. It rattled my confidence in a way I didn’t expect. I couldn’t speak properly for a while. I had to rebuild more than just my body. I had to rebuild trust. In the bike. In my body. In myself.
The process was long. (Still going too!) Slower than I wanted. Some days were better than others, but I was making progress. I was healing. I was finally starting to believe I could maybe make a comeback — even if it was just to feel strong again. To feel like an athlete again. To feel like me again.
And then… this.
The knee. The hormonal chaos. The identity spiral. It all hit like a second wave before I’d even finished treading water from the first one.
It felt cruel.
It felt like the universe had watched me claw my way back toward something like confidence and said, “Wait — not yet.”
I was already in the midst of rebuilding. Already navigating post-trauma physical healing. Already scared of how fragile everything felt. And then I got hurt again.
I mean, really?
It’s hard to explain what that does to you mentally. When you’re already in the thick of recovery and trying to stay optimistic, and then your body says, actually, we’re not done with setbacks yet — that’s the kind of thing that cracks something open inside you.
And it did. For a while.
I spiraled. I questioned everything. I felt ashamed that my comeback was more like a quiet retreat. I watched others race while I sat out. I compared. I cried. I got angry. And I felt — honestly — a little broken.
But I also kept going. Slower. Softer. More cautiously. But still going.
Because the truth is, healing isn’t linear. Comebacks aren’t always loud or fast or dramatic. Sometimes they look like one small thing at a time: a walk. A swim. A shift in your inner dialogue. A refusal to stop even when everything feels hard.
I’m still healing. I probably always will be, in some way. But I haven’t quit. And that counts for something. Actually, it counts for a lot.
Not long after my bike crash happened, my body started feeling foreign. I was gaining weight despite doing “all the right things,” not sleeping, feeling puffy, moody, and not mentally equipped to make sense of any of it. My favorite clothes — vintage dresses I’ve loved so much — stopped fitting. And so did the version of myself I was used to seeing in the mirror. (Reflecting back I know this happened even earlier than this — a little something here, and there.)
I wasn’t feeling strong. I wasn’t feeling sexy. I wasn’t even feeling functional some days.
And I didn’t know what to do about it.
This wasn’t just a fitness setback. It was an identity crisis.
I’ve been an athlete now for quite a few years. A triathlete. A runner. A coach. A mover. Terri in motion… Someone who gets through life by moving through it. And now, I wasn’t moving the way I was used to — and everything started to spiral. I didn’t feel like me. And honestly, I didn’t know how to be kind to myself through it.
The worst part? Since I am not I started comparing.
At first, it was subtle — a scroll through social media, seeing someone cross a finish line or post their post-race brunch photo. But then it became a deeper ache. Finish line photos. Jumping medal pics (I was always too clumsy for those, but now I missed not even being able to try). Sweaty selfies. Friends my age and older — teammates, clients, even strangers — completing races and looking full of joy, energy, and ease.
It hurt.
I was happy for them. I am happy for them. But I was also jealous — something I rarely admit, but need to say out loud. Jealous of their ability. Their health. Their energy. Their options. I didn’t choose to stop running. My body made the choice for me. And I resented it for that.
And here’s the twist: I’m a coach. A life coach. A movement professional. I help people navigate transitions and setbacks. I should’ve been better equipped. But I wasn’t. I was grieving. And that grief was layered — not just for the injury, but for the body I no longer recognized, the confidence that had quietly slipped away, and the identity I feared I had lost.
I started saying things to myself I would never say to a client or a friend. I felt like my body gave up on me and took everything I loved — training, racing, belonging — with it.
And yet, slowly… I kept going.
I started rowing again. I brought my elliptical back into my routine. I began walking — not to set a PR, but to feel steady in a body that no longer felt like mine. I strength trained. I swam when I could. I iced my knees. I stretched. I cried. I wrote. I talked to my cat (who, in his defense, is an excellent listener).
And somewhere in that very imperfect process, I remembered: I’m still here.I’m still an athlete. Even if I’m not racing.
I’m still a coach. Even when I don’t have it all figured out.I’m still me. Just… in a new season.
The physical healing is ongoing — both knees still act up. I still can’t run. Not yet. Maybe not ever the way I used to. But I’m finding other ways to move. To connect. To breathe. And to reclaim my body and my identity, one step at a time.
I’ve missed a lot of races — races I optimistically signed up for, hoping to make a comeback. But now, I’m eyeing a few that I might walk. Proudly. Joyfully. Not as a runner who’s lost something, but as a woman who’s discovered something else: resilience.
One of the most surprising and beautiful parts of all this has been the conversations. The more I’ve shared, the more others have opened up — women nodding in solidarity, men asking how they can support their partners (not fix them — support). We’re starting to talk about perimenopause, menopause, and post-menopause more openly. And we have to.
Because this? It’s real. It’s disruptive. And for many of us, it’s invisible — at least until we name it. Our grandmothers, mothers, aunts, and even sisters might not have talked about it, but we can. We need to.
And yes — some of the symptoms can make us feel “old” (whatever that means). When I’m lying in bed in the morning, trying to sit up without making sound effects, I feel like a turtle on its back, trying to navigate a turn over. But I also feel something else now: a sense of ownership. A deep, evolving self-awareness. A quieter strength. Even community at times.
Because I’ve made it through the worst of this storm — not untouched, but unbroken.And that’s something worth jumping for — metaphorically, of course.
P.S. Want to stay connected? Follow the Midlife in (E)Motion series weekly right here in Chicago Athlete Magazine, where I’ll keep sharing the messy, funny, hormonal, human truth of navigating aging, injury, identity, and rediscovery — one wildly imperfect pace at a time.
