I ran cross country in high school. I didn’t know how long the races were when I signed up. My brother came home on leave from the Air Force and told me it was 5 kilometers (3.1 miles) and that I should run with him. So, that is what I did. My first run was about 3 miles of flat road running with my brother beside me, telling me to look straight ahead and keep choosing the next target to run to. A couple of months later, I joined my team members on the track for our first practice. I fell in love.

In my sophomore year of high school, I was racing at the Mattawan Invitational, attempting to beat a contender for the second year. She placed ahead of me the year before by only a few seconds, and this was my last opportunity to go toe-to-toe since she was now a senior. There was one problem. The varsity race started early, and none of the girls on my team were at the starting line. I would have to run in the JV race, and the officials would factor my place based on time. How would I know if I was beating her or not? My first mile was sub-6 minutes. I was flying. My second mile was also exceptional. At some point in the third mile, I stepped into a hole on the course. The hole had a rock in it, and my ankle rolled hard as it gripped the rock for stability. I heard a loud pop, then another. I was in excruciating pain. I didn’t stop but lost whole minutes in that last mile. My ankle ballooned, and I could barely walk by the time I crossed the finish line.

For several weeks now, my therapist and I have been working through my trauma narrative. It has been difficult. Excruciating really. But the healing and growth have been tremendous. I have felt a bit like that sophomore running the first two miles of what I perceived to be a very important race. That race was smooth, even if it hadn’t all gone as planned. Sure, my lungs heaved for oxygen, I fought muscle fatigue, and I had to ignore the screaming in my brain to stop for only a minute. But I kept going.

I fought through all of the mental and physical trials UNTIL I rolled my ankle. I couldn’t maintain the same pace after that. I had to slow down. No amount of willing myself to push harder would make my ankle work correctly. And that is essentially what happened recently in therapy. It was going smoothly, not without pain, difficult emotions, and ruminating thoughts, but it’s not supposed to be without those things.

Trauma triggers are no joke, and because of some of the medical treatments I have had recently, I am experiencing painful physical sensations that are overwhelmingly triggering. In my attempt to deal with the sensations, I asked to talk about them with Dr. C. She asked me what experience these sensations were similar to, and that is when I stepped into the hole and rolled my ankle. It’s been frustrating to go from being able to talk about my narrative, or at the very least, sit with the thoughts, emotions, and sensations as Dr. C. reads it, to being paralyzed by the idea of speaking about what happened to make these sensations so triggering. It’s no different, right?

The thing is, I may feel frozen, movement might be difficult, and speaking might seem impossible, but I am still in the race. I fight to regulate during sessions. I fight to move parts of my body. I fight to stay present (not very successfully). Outside the session, I practice mindfulness, attempt dual awareness, ground, and try to see the 25-year-old with understanding and compassion. Putting words to the experience is important, and I’ll get there.

My ankle has been healed for a long time, but I can’t spread my toes on that foot. There was too much damage to the ligaments and tendons. It doesn’t hurt or bother me, though. It just is. And at some point in the future, the pain of the initial sexual trauma and intense, grueling therapy will be gone, and I will be left with only small, insignificant reminders that may be inconvenient or annoying but won’t crush me.

In the meantime, I’m struggling. My inner critic is loud and cruel. I dissociate. I suppress my emotions. I freeze and can’t speak. It’s frustrating. Dr. C. tells me it’s just part of my process. I know she’s right. I know we’ll “find okay” again.