You Cannot Heal What You Cannot Acknowledge

Our fall season had been hectic, and our garden had fallen to the wayside. My husband and I decided to take advantage of the beautiful weather by clearing the garden and preparing for spring.

The day had been full. Sunshine. Fresh air. The satisfaction of a day’s work in the garden is one of my absolute favorite feelings.

Our bellies were rumbling and the sun was fading into the western sky. We finished picking up our tools and headed into the garage. I kicked off my garden boots, savoring the earthy smell of the mud I had tracked in with me. I continued to the kitchen, washed my hands and began to prepare for dinner. The menu was sloppy joes and roasted potatoes. Ground meat simmering in the pan, I preheated the oven and moved on to prepping the potatoes. 

What happened next is etched in my memory like a tattoo. 

I was using a mandoline slicer to prepare the potatoes. Somewhere around my third potato I froze in absolute horror. It seemed like it happened — this sequence of events — all inside of the same motion. The safety guard on the mandoline had slid off, mid-slice, and before I even had a chance to register what was happening, my thumb and the potato met the blade together.

My body responded faster than my mind. I could feel the adrenaline and cortisol pumping through my system. Although it was clear to me what had just happened, another part of me knew that I was not yet ready to evaluate the extent of my injury.

I did not look at my thumb. I covered it, applied pressure, and calmly walked out to the garage to find my husband.

“Hey, I need your help please,” I said. “Yup, let me finish up what I’m working on. I’ll be there in a few minutes,” he responded.

I approached him directly, made eye contact, and said,  “No, NOW. I need you to come inside with me NOW.”

He looked up, confused, concerned, and followed me as I led him through the house to the bathroom. 

“I cut my thumb. I sliced it — with the mandoline. I’m pretty sure I’m in shock, and I need you to look at it. See how bad it is.”

His eyes were huge. “Ok,” he said.

I offered him my thumb while I looked away. “Hmm, yeah,” he said, while turning to exit the bathroom. “Where are you going??” I asked.

“I’m going to look in the bowl of potatoes, to see how much of your flesh is in the bowl.”

FUCK. I felt panic washing over my interior.

By now I had perched myself on the side of the bathtub. My legs were wobbly and my heart felt like it was about to beat out of my chest. My thumb felt hot. It was pulsing with an angry throb. It had its own heart beat. 

My hubby returned to properly wrap my injury, and we set out for the ER. 

I spent our drive to the hospital allowing it to all sink in. How in the hell did we get here? We had just had THE MOST AMAZING DAY.  The kind of day that starts out pretty ordinary, and out of nowhere graces you with something magical, like 75°, sunshine and gardening in February. Things were so good. Until they weren’t.  

“Well, it’s a clean slice, that’s for sure. No stitches, there’s nothing to stitch. You’ve completely sliced off the tip of your thumb (including the nail) on the lateral side. It will heal. But it’s going to take a while. Several months. There’s no way to know if it will fully regain its shape. If you’re lucky the nerve damage will be minimal. Keep it clean and covered.”

She re-wrapped it and sent us on our way. Ugh.

Upon returning home I collapsed on my bed in an exhausted heap and cried myself to sleep. 

I’m not gonna lie. I spent the next few weeks suspended in a state of paralyzed wallowing. I contacted my clients, and cleared my schedule for the next 14 days. I knew that wouldn’t be enough time, but it was a place to start. It allowed me the space to consider my options.

In the meantime, I still hadn’t looked at my wound. My husband helped me keep it clean and wrapped, applying new dressing each day. Every time he unwrapped it, I would look away. I had become familiar with it through the bandaging. I palpated it, learning the tender parts, getting a sense of the shape. I was very aware that beneath the wrappings my injury was raw, exposed and incredibly vulnerable.

Somewhere around day ten, my husband called me out. 

“It’s time for you to accept this. You need to look at your thumb.”

I knew he was right. I knew it was time. “Okay,” I said, as I looked away again.

It took me a few more days to steel myself for the big reveal. It really wasn’t dramatic. It was mostly how I had imagined it would look. It was my thumb, minus the tip on the left side, at a super clean angle. 

What I noticed next hooked my attention. Although the wound was clean, it was clear to me that it had not yet started to heal. My husband’s words looped through my head as I recalled what had become a routine conversation.

“How does it look?” I would ask.

“The same as it did yesterday and the day before. No better, no worse,” he would reply.

From that day forward, I took over the full care of my injury. It didn’t take long to notice a difference. Healing was happening. Each day there was measurable progress. It seemed to me that during the time I was avoiding the acceptance of my injury, through my stage of wallowing in indecision, the healing process was also held in a suspended state.

I have never felt that way about an injury, ever, before or since. I think a lot of it was about allowing the space for my mind to process and catch up. I needed time to come to terms with the bigger implications I was facing. While the emergency had been managed, it took days to flush the surge of stress hormones from my tissues. It took even longer to accept that it was time to change the way I worked with my clients. And, to land in one of the biggest lessons of my healing journey.

You cannot heal what you don’t acknowledge. 

You cannot change what you are unwilling to see.

The injury to my thumb was a physical metaphor for an inner process that had been unfolding for many months. It had been nearly a year since I had enrolled in the BodyMind Coaching program. I had completed my training and had been baby stepping towards shifting the way I worked with clients. Moving away from hands-on work into full time coaching was my goal, and I had been scared to go all in. Scared that I would lose my clients, that they wouldn’t value coaching the same way they valued massage. I was scared that I would fail, that I would ruin the business I had been developing for fourteen years.

I believe the injury to my thumb was a gift. It was an opportunity in disguise. It was a catalyst, accelerating a process that had already been put into motion. It forced me to call bullshit on myself, step out of my funk and cross the threshold of choosing what I really wanted.

The truth is, the closer we get to what we want, the higher the likelihood we will look for a way to high-tail it back towards something familiar. Even if what is familiar isn’t working. Even if we’re kind of miserable. Because what’s familiar feels safe.

To balance this out, sometimes life shows up and jolts us awake with a disruption. If we are paying attention, we recognize that it’s a call to action. An invitation to pivot. I feel like our industry portrays the pivot as a seamless process. I don’t agree. Sometimes it’s hard and messy. Sometimes you feel fierce and sometimes you feel defeated. It’s okay. This is where the healing is happening. A series of moments, choices and subtle shifts nudging us along and supporting us in learning to face the places we fear the most.

In choosing the perspective to view my injury as an opportunity, I reached out to all of my clients. I offered them the option to shift to a coaching framework. Many of them accepted. Some did not. And that felt okay too. I referred them on to other trusted practitioners in my area so that they could receive the work that felt most aligned for them. 

My thumb healed beautifully. I was able to be patient and present to my healing process, which took several months. The skin and tissue grew back and I am happy to share that I do not have a flat thumb. It’s mostly round and thumb shaped with minimal nerve damage. I feel a bit of an electrical zing when I apply pressure to it, but I’ve come to appreciate the sensation. It’s a powerful reminder of my own healing.

Several weeks ago I was on my way home from running some errands. I found myself waiting at a stop sign directly across the street from my old office. Traffic was heavy. I sat there for awhile, and then I was struck by the vantage point. I felt my focus shift from the humdrum drive home to the full circle moment in front of me. I was invited to fully embody the awareness of where I am now in contrast to the memory of where I used to be.

For so many years of my massage practice, managing a physical location had felt heavy. I remembered that once upon a time, I fought against myself and my inner wisdom every day. All of me desperately longed to be free from the overhead and responsibility of having an office. I endured because it was familiar. I endured because I didn’t want to let people down. I endured because my logical brain couldn’t yet see the bigger vision.

That last Saturday of February 2017 was magical. It was an incredible 75° and we worked in the garden all day. It was also the day the universe tapped me on the shoulder and said, “It’s time,” and challenged me to step up. To step into the next chapter of my healing and begin trusting my inner knowing. The choices I put into motion as a result of my injury that day are the same choices that supported me in ultimately releasing my physical space the following year and transitioning to 100% remote coaching.