The Second Time. When Everything Seemed Just Right.

It was a Saturday—one of those nearly perfect days where everything feels like it’s finally coming together. My partner, Jake, and I decided to take our 4-year-old daughter out for a bike ride. Not just around the neighborhood like I had done a few times before—this time we loaded up the bikes and headed to a paved walking and biking trail about 30 minutes from home. It was flat, shaded, and peaceful. My physical therapist had cleared me to ride again, and I was genuinely excited. The wind in my hair, the feeling of freedom—everything I’d missed so badly.

We parked, hit the bathrooms, got our toddler secured in the bike seat on the back of Jake’s bike, and off we went. It was calm. Not too hot. Not too crowded. It felt safe. Normal. Hopeful.

But then, out of nowhere, a bug flew directly into my left eye—no, I wasn’t wearing glasses (a mistake I’ll never make again). As I tried to stop and wipe my eye, I lost control. There was a slight grassy incline next to the trail, and my tire dipped just enough to throw me forward. I hit the brakes and flew over the handlebars, crashing hard onto my right leg and tumbling down the slope.

I knew instantly something was wrong. I heard and felt that familiar, awful pop.

I lay there in the grass, tangled with my bike, trying to catch my breath—not just physically, but emotionally too. Jake asked if I was okay. All I could say was, “Just give me a minute.” He got our daughter out of the bike seat while I tried to sit up, propping myself up with my bike like a crutch. Fortunately, we were close to the next parking lot. I hobbled there slowly while Jake raced back to get the truck.

I knew deep down what had happened, but I didn’t want it to be real. I told myself I’d wait until Monday to call the orthopedic surgeon. I didn’t want another ER visit. I knew the routine and the costs all too well.

Monday came, and they got me in right away. The doctor did the exam and said it felt okay but ordered an MRI “just in case.” I clung to that tiny shred of hope—maybe this was just a scare. Maybe it wasn’t a full tear. Maybe this wasn’t a full restart.

But Friday morning, the call came. It was torn again. My BEAR ACL graft had failed. A few fibers were still hanging on, but it wasn’t enough. I wouldn’t be eligible for the BEAR procedure a second time. I’d have to go the traditional route. I broke down on that call, and I completely fell apart after I hung up.

I never wanted to go through this again. I felt like I had done everything right. I thought I dodged the bullet the first time. I chose a surgery that didn't involve harvesting another body part, and now I had to go back and do the very thing I’d tried to avoid.

And that moment… that phone call… it was the beginning of a very dark chapter. The depression crept in hard and fast.

This is what they don’t talk about with injuries—the emotional weight. The disappointment. The grief. The fear of starting all over again.

But I’m still here. Writing this. Telling the story. And trying to climb out, one day at a time.