As I lie on the floor whimpering in pain, all of the things that are about to become difficult swirl through my head: I have three articles to finish writing and a podcast to edit, my daughter needs to be picked up from school soon, I have to go food shopping because we’re out of bread, the girls’ clothes are upstairs and need to be cleaned for tomorrow…
I feel my youngest daughter’s hand on my shoulder and it brings me out of my thought spiral.
“Mom, are you okay?”
My dog walks over and nudges me on the cheek, as if to mirror my daughter’s question.
“Yes,” I manage to squeak out, not that convincingly.
I stand up and try to look like I’m not in pain.
“I just hurt my ankle. A little ice will help.” I hop over to the freezer and grab an ice pack. My daughter skips away, humming, and returns to building a fort in the living room.
Shit. I hate being hurt, I complain to myself. The ice pack feels like glass shards shredding my skin.
I text my husband:
“I just sprained my ankle really badly”
(He’ll later compliment me on my…
