How bad do you want it?
The twangy tones of Tim McGraw were living rent-free in my head as I sat on the training table, staring at my compromised ankle.
A surgeon’s scope had methodically made its way through that ankle’s interior about a month prior, while I was sedated with anesthesia.
Now the stitches were out, and the swelling had mostly receded. I could walk in a straight line without any noticeable limp. And if not for my bulky walking boot, most passersby wouldn’t even know I was at less than 100%.
But I knew.
I realized how limited my ankle rotation had become. How tough it was to take the stairs or get into the shower. How tentative I was when getting out of bed in the morning.
If I ever wanted to run again, I needed to fix this.
It was all up to me.
Running is what had got me to this spot on the training table. The thread tying this lightweight Greek tragedy together.
It had become a hobby of mine in adulthood. First on the treadmill, then out on the streets and sidewalks.
I never went all that far, and I never expected all that much of it. Much like Forrest Gump, I was just…running.
But eventually I got bored of this routine, and I signed up for some local races. That led me to local running groups, who talked me into training more and entering longer races.
Suddenly, everything started to click. I was putting up faster times than I ever imagined I could and collecting a ton of hardware along the way.
I set loftier goals and began to picture attaining them.
But then I got hurt.
A stress fracture in my left leg brought running to an abrupt halt. I was forced to withdraw from the marathon I was training for, deferring my entry to the following year. As my leg healed, I clung to the silver lining. With a full year to prepare for this race, the sky was the limit.
But once I got clearance to run again, I realized how tall a task this would be.
My stamina was poor, and I got winded easily. But beyond that, my right ankle was starting to bother me.
Whenever I made a left turn on the street or the track, it felt like someone was whacking my ankle bone with a wooden mallet. Sometimes, this dull pain would slow me down. Other times, it would cause me to shift my running gait.
Eventually, I found my way to an orthopedist, who recommended surgery. And after some thought, I agreed.
So now, here I was on the training table. My deferred marathon entry was still waiting for me 10 months in the future. But I had to get there.
It was all up to me.
The physical therapist started with some light exercises. I turned my ankle in a circle a few times. Then I flexed it back and forth while a resistance band applied tension.
It wasn’t much, but I attacked it all with vigor.
As the weeks went on, the exercises got more challenging. But my determination never waned. If anything, it got stronger.
I would power through my reps, re-doing any that seemed off. Rather than dawdling between assignments, I’d add in old exercises the physical therapist had dropped from my routine.
There was a fire in my eyes through it all. This was more than a doctor’s prescription or an insurance requirement to me. It was my Normandy, my Gettysburg, my Saratoga.
If my future as a runner was what I was fighting for, this was the battle I had to win.
How bad did I want it?
Day by day, session by session, I was providing the answer to Tim McGraw’s question.
It was all up to me. And I was up to the challenge.
After four months of physical therapy, I found a semblance of victory.
My ankle had regained its strength. My range of motion had returned. And I was even doing some light jogging as my physical therapist looked on.
I was elated when I got the clearance to graduate from the biweekly physical therapy sessions. I started running again. And I reacquainted myself with the local running groups.
The tide was turning. My goal seemed attainable.
But a couple months later, I sustained yet another bone injury. And follow-up testing uncovered a degenerative condition.
My racing days were done — for good. Even recreational running seemed dicey.
I was devastated.
I felt waylaid by the diagnosis, and I was furious at my own body for betraying me. I withdrew from everyone and everything for a time, finding sanctuary in solitude and silence. As the holidays approached, I glumly referred to that year as the worst of my life.
It was all up to me. And I’d failed.
Quite a bit of time has passed since those dark days. And I’m picking up what I’d missed back then.
Namely, my four-month crusade to get my ankle right again.
It might not have led me to the starting line of my marathon. But it still amounted to something.
I’d set my sights on a goal. And I’d fought like heck to attain it.
That was a noble undertaking. And looking back now, I am proud of what I did.
But it needn’t be a one-off.
While I have no designs on reprising my post-surgery rehab, there are still things in life that I can prioritize. There’s still plenty I can fight for.
Much of that has come into focus for me in recent months. And as we embark on a new year, I’m eager to thrust myself into the battle.
Perhaps this is a better way to approach the calendar change. Rather than rewriting our core narrative or checking off items on a self-improvement list, we can reacquaint ourselves with what we’re fighting for.
In doing so, we can give ourselves the spark to go after it. Not for the calendar’s sake. But rather for us.
How bad do you want it?
It’s more than a Tim McGraw song. It’s an invitation.
Take it.