It's been a few years since I had played a real game of pick-up basketball, so I felt reluctant to step on the court with a bunch of gamers most of whom were about ten years younger than me. But what did I have to lose? Other than my ankle.
Yep, moments into my second game and feeling pretty decent about my rusty skills I awkwardly stepped on someone’s foot rolling my ankle with all my weight breaking two bones.
The next couple of days involved a lot of ice, Advil, and staring my limitations straight in the eyes. The chatter inside my head wasn’t pretty. The dark spiral started with, “Why were you attempting to play in the first place?” to “You can’t do ANYTHING without somehow screwing it up!”
The fact that this incident and slow recovery process is occurring in the middle of the Lenten season isn’t lost on me. I’ve found it difficult to slow down without having it handed forcibly to me. Not until I was ushered into this space did I begin to truly hear the barrage of voices most of which were unfriendly messages laced with fear and shame.
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