It’s been exactly a year since the scariest day of my life – when I saw the flash of white air bag and mistook it for “the light”. I said out loud “I’m not ready to go yet, I’ve not lived my life”.
People ask me what it feels like, coming up on a year. It’s an anniversary date I never thought would apply to me, but today I’m celebrating it as I would any other accomplishment in my life. With some reflection, and a bit of bubbly.
Goals and achievements looked different for me this past year. Some more obvious, like walking to the end of the block and back, graduating from two physio sessions a week to one. Straightening my own hair when the stitches healed (thanks for the help, Mike!) And some, less obvious, but more impactful. Writing an email using the proper grammar, finding the right words during presentations at work, pushing through the fatigue and grogginess of the concussion.
The pain, too, shall pass, and each day gets easier. I’m thankful I live in a city where I can make a physio appointment at the drop of a hat, and that my employer provides me the means to afford it. But what has been easier to take for granted this year has been all of the opportunities this downtime has afforded me.
Catching up on Netflix with my boo, reading all of my book club reads on time, sleeping in (a bit) on Sundays, and putting my heart and soul into my new love, gardening. Maybe I’ve hit early retirement, but my cup runneth over with personal growth in a way racing all over the city like a mad woman never gave me.
Every day isn’t rosy (except in my perennial garden, those roses are legit), and keeping perspective is hard, but each day, and especially today, I remember that I declared aloud one year ago, “I’m not done yet. I’ve not lived my life.”