Yesterday, I broke my foot.
A normal person hears that and thinks: Ouch, that sucks, but you’ll heal.
People give tips. They say things like,
“Stay off it,”
“Use your crutches,”
“Elevate it,”
“Rest up.”
But when you’re living in a body like mine—a body already held together by sheer willpower, medical tape, and a French bulldog’s emotional support—nothing is ever that simple.
A broken foot shouldn’t feel like the final straw.
It shouldn’t feel like a threat to your whole system.
But here we are.
Bones That Don’t Bounce Back the Same
Cancer weakens your bones in ways you don’t even feel until something happens. Every scan I’ve had, every treatment I’ve survived, every medication I’ve taken—they all come with a fine-print warning label stamped across my skeleton.
So when my foot snapped, it wasn’t just “bad luck.”
It was another reminder that my body has been fighting a war for years, and the battlefield never got a rebuild.
It hurts more than it should.
It’s swollen more than it should be.
It’s taking more out of me than it should.
And the worst part?
I could feel myself mentally spiraling the second it happened, because I knew what this meant for me is not what it means for everyone else.
Crutches Aren’t Made for This Body
If I had two perfectly healthy arms and a body that cooperated, crutches would be a minor inconvenience.
Instead, using them feels like punishment.
The pressure goes straight into the spot under my arm where I’ve had surgery—where my lymph nodes were taken, where the lymphedema likes to flare up whenever life gets too heavy (which is always).
Every hop sends a spark of pain into a place that’s already overworked, overswollen, and straight-up tired.
My arms shake.
My shoulders give out.
My balance is the kind of gamble I can’t afford to lose.
I don’t have the strength I used to.
Cancer took that from me piece by piece, and I’m still trying to exist in a body that doesn’t match what my mind thinks I should be capable of.
It’s the Exhaustion That Gets You
If pain were the only issue, I could grit my teeth. I’ve done that more times than I can count.
But it’s the exhaustion—that heavy, bone-deep, soul-draining fatigue that makes something as small as getting from the couch to the bathroom feel like climbing Everest.
It’s knowing that a broken foot will take energy I already don’t have.
It will complicate a life that is already complicated.
It will make the bare minimum feel impossible.
Sometimes the hardest part of being sick isn’t the big things.
It’s the “little” things that other people get to shrug off—things that derail my whole world.
A broken foot shouldn’t be this devastating.
But it is.
And I’m allowed to say that.
Trying to Heal in a Body That’s Already Hurting
I’m trying to stay off of it.
I’m trying to rest.
I’m trying to follow instructions.
But we all know that nothing in my life is ever as simple as it should be.
I’m overwhelmed, I’m frustrated, and I’m tired of my own body feeling like the enemy.
I want a break—just one moment where something hurts only for the reason it’s supposed to.
But until then, I’m here, doing what I’ve always done:
surviving the things most people don’t ever have to think twice about.
And Mojo, of course, has not left my side. He’s sitting next to my broken foot like he’s personally guarding it from further harm. Ten out of ten, would trust him over any orthopedic surgeon.
For Anyone Asking If I Need Anything
Your messages mean more than you know.
If you want to help while I’m hobbling around like a chaotic flamingo, here’s my Amazon list:
Check out this Gift List I just created:
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