Nothing you experience is new to humankind. Every ounce of emotion has been felt, every pang of fear has been dealt with, and amazingly enough, we have survived it in some capacity. In the day and age of social media, it can be easy to get caught up in the lives of the Instagram couple who takes endless vacations with a picturesque life. Or, you follow these amazing people who seem to share their highs and lows effortlessly (and painlessly). Despite the monumental amount of resources we have available to us, we still need one thing: Connection.
We all have struggles, but our stories give space to those who might be struggling with trials and tribulations we have already trekked against. Our story could prepare them. However, in true Lauren fashion, in the middle of typing this out, I realized I haven’t been forthcoming with my own story. Truthfully, it’s painful. I am an expert at deflecting emotion while wielding productivity like a shield. This week, however, I had that shield ripped off and I have been staring at this screen for the last 6-hours trying to navigate how to share this.
Earlier this month I got to see someone whom I haven’t seen in five years. To paint the picture of why this was so mind-blowing for me, the last time I saw this individual I weighed 118lbs, was less than a year off a fully ruptured L4/L5/S1 and was regularly struggling to stand and walk. When they walked in memories of them having to carry me up-stairs and pick me out of my car when I was too numb to move crashed into me like a wave. Without skipping a beat, we picked up with the general small talk, but I was left reeling.
For some, perceived tragedy gets etched into their eyelids, a visceral photo that they can never escape. It affects and shapes their actions: how they move, what they do, how they relate. How they operate now shifts to reflect, or project, pain.
The morning I ruptured my back (L4/L5, L5/S1) I was doing sprints and 100 meters into the first lane I collapsed. All I knew was I was in tremendous pain, breathing hurt like hell, and I couldn’t get off the track.
I would later be medically disqualified from my commission. While that sounds cut and dry, the devastation was the appetizer to the aftermath I ended up having to swallow. Walking was difficult, I could barely get my socks on, and the career I had worked so hard to cultivate washed down the drain with a single letter from a surgeon. I was crushed. My recovery was sprinkled with attempts at reclaiming my identity: there was a bodybuilding show, three jobs (one in which I was fired from), and the introduction to powerlifting. The last one saved me. While this paragraph may paint a picture of a short stint of injury and rehab this endeavor was five years in the making. At one point a surgeon refused to operate on me because it “will end up with you being wheelchair-bound.” At 21, my world felt like it was collapsing in.
Now, I wouldn’t wish that pit of pain on anyone, and nothing about my recovery process was easy, but that rupture led me to a sport that would change and challenge my mindset, a career that I am blessed to be a part of, the ability to compete at a national level in powerlifting, etc. My world (at the time) shattered, but standing back, the scarred pieces of the puzzle look better than I could have ever imagined. I don’t let myself think about what happened, or how, because I haven’t done the emotional work to unpack the feelings of worthlessness and self-loathing I buried when I was trying to survive. I don’t believe I’ve done anything amazing, truly. Somedays I simply existed, and at that moment that was a serious win. If nothing else, I’m fucking lucky. If one person hadn’t been there when I was putting this puzzle back together, I may not have made it. The friend who didn’t let me feel ashamed about getting carried up the stairs, the battles (“battle buddies” for the civies) who helped me put on my shoes in the winter, the physical therapist who took the time to explain that pain was psychosomatic and I could live without pain, the coaches and mentors who worked with me to move my broken body in a way that could be meaningful for me… all of it changed my life.
It’s important to share the journey. People need to know that the façade or presentation of the ‘now’ isn’t what it seems. I had someone tell me that they “wanted to look like me” and no shit 5-seconds afterward a man walked into my workplace that had seen me at my worst, had picked me up off the floor of his house because I couldn’t get myself up, and was now seeing me in my best. I am overwhelmed writing this, the gravity of that struggle is often lost on me because I bury myself under the guise of productivity. So, before I sign off this rambling mess; you are so worthy. Of love, of kindness, of validation…regardless of how you look, present, or live. And if no one has told you recently, I am telling you now.
Sharing your story permits people to struggle, to grieve, to fight. Sharing your story reminds us that we’re connected: in the struggle, in the joy, and in every step of our life we are surrounded by those who can lift us up. If you have no one, my doors are always open.
“We Rise By Lifting Others” – Robert Ingersoll
THE BUNKER 