The Day I Tore My ACL- And Everything Changed
A casual Sunday at the campground turned into the beginning of a life-changing recovery. Here’s the full story of how I tore my ACL during a family volleyball game, what came next, and why I chose the BEAR ACL surgery.
A volleyball, some hot sand, and one very loud pop.
It was a Sunday — July 7, 2024 — and we were wrapping up a weekend at our campground. Sundays are usually pack-up-and-head-home days, but for some reason, I decided we should squeeze in a little more fun before the chaos of the week set in. So I gathered all five of our kids and headed to the park for one last adventure.
I took the girls — my 10-year-old daughter, 14-year-old bonus daughter, and 3-year-old toddler — to the sand volleyball courts. The sand was blistering hot, so we made the smart (and slightly ridiculous) choice to play in socks. My toddler happily plopped down on a blanket in the middle of it all, dodging volleyballs like it was no big deal.
A family nearby — a dad and his three teenage daughters — were playing on the next court over. In classic mom fashion, I invited them to a friendly match. My bonus daughter was mortified that I had the nerve to talk to strangers and initiate a game. She played anyway (grudgingly, of course).
Something switched in me during that game. My competitive streak kicked in — hard. Suddenly, I was diving for the ball, pretending like I knew what I was doing, like I’d trained for this. For the record, volleyball was never my sport. Actually, sports in general weren’t my thing. My mom still makes fun of how I run, and my athletic career peaked with riding the bench in 7th grade basketball.
Meanwhile, my partner, my 8-year-old son, and my 10-year-old bonus son were off playing basketball at another part of the park. While they were casually shooting hoops, I was doing my best volleyball impersonation.
And then it happened.
I dove for the ball. My knee twisted sharply inward. POP. The kind of pop that makes your stomach turn before your brain even catches up. I dropped to the sand, shouting a very un-family-friendly string of words. The pain was immediate, sharp, and unreal.
The dad from the other team walked over and said, “Oh really?” — clearly not sure how serious it was. (Spoiler: it was serious.) Lifeguards from the beach nearby came over to help. When I tried to stand, my leg gave out and popped again.
They got me to a bench, where I sat, stunned and hurting, waiting for the ambulance. My partner gathered the kids and rushed back to camp to clean everything up while I got carted off to the nearest hospital — 30 minutes away — by ambulance.
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The Diagnosis
At the ER, they did X-rays (which, of course, showed nothing — classic soft tissue injury move), put me in a straight leg brace, handed me crutches, and told me to follow up with a doctor back home. Meanwhile, my partner was busting his butt — packing up the camper, wrangling all five kids, and then driving to come get me. We rode home crammed into the front seat, my leg in a brace, surrounded by seven passengers and a whole weekend’s worth of camping gear.
Back home, I started calling any orthopedic doctor who could see me quickly. Walking wasn’t an option, and I needed answers. Eventually, I got the call: a fully ruptured ACL.
Great.
Why I Chose the BEAR ACL Procedure
I started researching surgical options. I was drawn to the BEAR ACL procedure — a newer technique that i thought didn’t involve drilling into my bones or taking tissue from elsewhere in my body. Honestly, I didn’t want to “rob Peter to pay Paul.” The idea of preserving what I had just made sense. Plus, the slower recovery up front felt manageable with my job and family situation.
That’s when I found Dr. Ronak Patel, one of the leading BEAR ACL surgeons in Illinois. His entire website was dedicated to this surgery. It felt like a win. He got me in fast and scheduled surgery within two weeks.
What They Don’t Tell You
They say it’s a one-year recovery. But you don’t fully grasp how long a year is until you’re in it. Still, I reminded myself: You’ve had worse. I once had lung surgery after three spontaneous pneumothoraxes. I had an epidural from the neck down and a morphine drip and still thought I might die from the pain. If I could survive that, I could survive this.
And I did — the surgery, the pain, the brace, the crutches. But what I didn’t expect was the emotional side: the isolation, the frustration, the sadness that creeps in when your body just can’t do what you want it to do. Injury depression is real.No one prepares you for that.
Thankfully, I wasn’t alone. My family stepped up. My partner, my kids — they’ve been there every step of the way, even when I couldn’t take those steps myself.
This was the beginning of my ACL journey — one I thought would end with that first surgery. But as you’ll learn on this blog… it didn’t.
Because sometimes life has a second pop waiting.
And that’s why you’re here. ACL Again.
Oops, I did it again. How I re-tore my ACL 11 months later.
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.