What a Fall Taught Me About Fear, Aging, and Learning to Fly

I was excited and nervous when I landed in Massachusetts. I’d flown there to compete in the Massachusetts Senior Games in power walking. I had discovered the sport a little over a year earlier after learning I could no longer run. I needed something that would still give me a great workout. Power walking is different from regular walking. It uses a more deliberate arm swing and stride to maximize speed while keeping one foot on the ground at all times. When it’s done well, it almost looks as though you’re gliding. To my surprise, I could get my heart rate up to the same levels as when I ran. I ended up feeling stronger and more toned. But most importantly, I was getting fast.

On a lark, I’d signed up for the Illinois Senior Games and ended up winning a gold medal. That unexpected victory motivated me to train even harder. I wanted to be competitive at the Massachusetts Senior Games and qualify for the National Senior Games, formerly known as the National Senior Olympics. I developed a training plan that included timed track workouts, longer endurance walks, shorter speed sessions, and strength training. I wanted to do well.

Michael and I arrived in Massachusetts on Thursday evening. The race was scheduled for Sunday. He had found a Gilded Age mansion for us to visit on Friday morning—the Muskeag House in Stockbridge, Massachusetts, once owned by the wealthy Choate family. It was a beautiful property. The colorful rose garden, the long walkway down a steep hill, and the sweeping views of the Berkshire Mountains were breathtaking.

As we walked back to the hotel, I smiled to myself. Everything about the trip was going so well. My stepmother would be arriving that afternoon with a friend, and I was looking forward to seeing Brian, one of my father’s closest friends. My father had passed away more than twenty years earlier, and I hadn’t seen Brian since. I had recently learned that he, too, would be competing in the power-walking event.

I had trained hard, going out in the snow, ice, rain, and bitter cold. I hadn’t missed a workout. I had packed every conceivable item I might need for the race: electrolyte tablets, a cooling towel, multiple outfits, and anything else I thought might help.

I was prepared for everything.

Or so I thought.

There was a sidewalk for most of the route, except for one short section. I chose to walk along the road instead. As Michael and I talked about where we wanted to have lunch, I glanced back at him. He was a few steps behind me. Without realizing it, I stepped onto a section of pavement that had crumbled into the embankment.

That’s when I started to fall.

It felt as though I was falling in slow motion. I tried desperately to regain my balance, attempting to plant both feet firmly on the ground.

I couldn’t.

I landed hard, sliding forward on both forearms and one knee. When I managed to sit up, my forearms were covered in blood, my elbow was bruised, my knee was scraped, and I felt as though all the air had been knocked out of me.

Mostly, though, I was shocked. How could I have fallen two days before an important race? I hadn’t fallen in years. Would I even be able to compete?

Michael rushed over.

“Just sit. Don’t get up.”

After several minutes, I stood shakily and slowly limped back to the hotel.

“I can’t believe I spent all this time training. I’m not even sure I can compete,” I said through tears.

“Let’s get you bandaged up and then assess things,” he said.

There is something uniquely unsettling about falling. You suddenly feel like a child again. Helpless. Vulnerable. Foolish. Something you’ve done automatically your entire life—walking—suddenly feels uncertain. The world becomes scarier. You become cautious about sidewalks, roads, and uneven surfaces. And you begin to question whether you can do something as basic as walking.

I thought about my mother. She fell when she was eighty-eight and ultimately died from complications related to that injury. Although I am nowhere near that age, her experience suddenly felt very close to me. For the first time, I understood how one unexpected moment could completely change your sense of safety.

Would I even be able to compete? I wondered. I had spent months preparing for this race, and now, in the span of a few seconds, everything suddenly felt uncertain.

Back at the hotel, Michael cleaned my wounds, applied antibiotic ointment, and bandaged me up. The pain was mostly a dull ache punctuated by sharp stabs whenever I moved the wrong way or accidentally brushed against something.

I spent the afternoon resting. I think both my body and my mind were in shock. I had very little energy and felt unsteady on my feet.

My stepmother and her friend arrived later that afternoon. When they saw my wounds, their expressions immediately changed.

“I don’t think it will affect you,” my stepmother reassured me.

I wanted to believe her. I wasn’t so sure.

The next day, we all visited Edith Wharton’s home. I sat down whenever I had the opportunity. Despite getting a full night’s sleep, I still felt exhausted. That afternoon, I put my feet up and read.

“I’m really worried about this race,” I said.

“I think you’ll do fine,” Michael said. “A lot of it is psychological.”

I also wanted to believe that. But I didn’t know whether this was simply fear or whether my body was genuinely struggling to recover.

On Sunday morning, after another restless night, I got ready for the race. I had no idea how it would go, but I decided I would simply give it everything I had. My stepmother was there to cheer me on, and my father’s longtime friend, Brian, was also competing. Knowing they would both be watching added a little extra pressure.

I arrived at the track and completed my warm-up. One of my competitors asked my age. She and I would be competing in the same age group, and I wondered how fast she might be.

Before the race began, the officials reviewed the rules. In power walking, one foot must remain on the ground at all times. Two judges would be stationed around the track, watching our form and issuing red flags if anyone violated the rules.

The gun went off, and I surged ahead. It was already hot, and I wondered whether I could maintain my pace. I heard someone behind me and glanced back. It was Brian, the only man competing in the race. He stayed close behind me for about half a lap.

After the first lap, my time was 2:26—right on target.

I heard my stepmother yell, “Go, Annie! Great job, Annie!”

Her voice gave me a boost.

The second lap gave me a total time 5:02.

As I rounded the bend, one of the race officials looked at me and smiled.

“Looking good.”

At the third lap, my total time was 7:42.

I was still on pace to finish close to a ten-minute mile—exactly where I wanted to be. There was no one behind me.

I heard Michael yell, “Just one more lap to go, Annie!”

I poured it on. But the heat was taking its toll, and I had to weave around several competitors as I finished my final lap, but I crossed the finish line in 10:19. It wasn’t my goal time, but it was pretty close.

But I had won.

I earned a gold medal and qualified for the 2027 National Senior Games.

As I caught my breath, one of the race officials walked over.

“You have excellent form,” he said. “Nice job.”

As I stood there, I realized a fall had temporarily convinced me that I was fragile. It had shaken my confidence and reminded me how quickly our sense of security can disappear. But it also reminded me that life sometimes knocks us down without warning. And that we are often far more capable of getting back up than we realize.

I’d fallen.

I’d gotten up.

And then I’d flown.