Eight weeks ago, I missed a step in my home, went down hard, and fractured my right fibula, just above the ankle. My world became very small, very fast.
Suddenly, I had a hairline fracture, an ‘air cast’ (aka, a boot), a knee scooter, strict orders not to put weight on my leg, pain, ice, pain meds, and an impressive number of pillows devoted entirely to elevation.
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I went from driving, working, running errands, and going wherever to spending every day on the sofa with my leg up. I’m still not fully weight-bearing, and my next X-ray is a week away as I write this.
Though my fibula, apparently, is in no hurry whatsoever, I’m grateful it’s a clean hairline break that doesn’t require surgery. Could've been worse.
Still, losing one’s independence overnight is frustrating and downright humbling. I don’t love asking someone to bring me coffee, help me change my sexy compression sock, or carry things from one room to another. I especially don’t love that every basic task now requires the intense concentration of Pip watching me open a can that may or may not contain tuna.
Still, I started noticing what these eight weeks have taught me about life, gratitude, and, of course, writing.
The word temporary saved my sanity. I can deal with the living downstairs, the boot, the scooter, the sofa, washing my hair in the sink, using my son’s bathroom😬, and asking for help because I know this isn’t forever.
There will be another X-ray, followed by another stage of healing, a brace, and physical therapy. Eventually, I’ll walk normally again. I’ll drive. I’ll be back to doing the everyday boring stuff I miss.
Writing misery can feel permanent, too. Rejection, a terrible review, low book sales, zero engagement, or a draft that refuses to behave can convince us this is how writing will be forever.
It usually isn’t. It’s what’s happening now. Now passes. This too shall pass.
I hate asking for help. I’d rather do something myself (my mom started calling me Iron Butterfly at age two), even if that means balancing on one leg while holding a water bottle, my cat, and making questionable takeout choices.
This fracture put a stop to that nonsense.
I’m not helpless; I’m injured and convalescing. There’s a difference, even if my stubborn brain occasionally needs a reminder.
It does.
Writers can be just as stubborn. Shocking, I know. We expect ourselves to write, edit, publish, market, design graphics, understand metadata, run ads, deal with AI slop everywhere, recognize ALL THE scams, and keep up with whatever Amazon or Substack changed five minutes ago, even when we don’t know what half that stuff is.
Becoming a writer doesn’t automatically translate to being a marketing expert.
You’re allowed to ask for help. It’s not as difficult as you may think. Trust me.
Before this happened, driving represented freedom. I could go wherever I wanted, whenever I wanted. I live in a Northern California suburb, so a car is pretty much a necessity. Now I can’t drive at all.
It’s fine. I don’t need to run out every day to pick up more watermelon. Most things can wait, others can be delivered, and a surprising number were never necessary in the first place.
As for my weekly Mahjong? One of the ladies kindly comes and picks me up. I rarely win, but I learn every time, have fun, and I’m out of the house. That’s the real prize.
I miss having the option to drive more than I miss driving.
We confuse activity with progress and being busy with productivity.
Writers are especially good at multitasking. We write, post, promote, research, revise, check our sales, check them again, and then wonder why we’re exhausted. Breathe.
Pulling ourselves in fifteen directions isn’t the same as moving forward. Sometimes your writing needs you to stay put and focus on one thing.
My word for 2026 is slow. Mission accomplished, I guess. Thanks, Irony.
Life is quieter now. Most days, it’s Pip and me. I read. I work. In the evenings, I chat with my family and friends, read, watch reality TV and PBS, which, let’s be honest, is a well-rounded cultural education. One minute I’m learning something interesting about history or nature, and the next, adults are screaming at each other over five-wick candles. Who knew?
I in no way recommend fracturing a bone as a wellness retreat, but I can admit that parts of this slower life feel pretty damn good.
Quiet can also be incredibly healing for the mind.
The quiet has helped my writing, too. Ideas need somewhere to land. When every minute is filled with noise, errands, notifications, and obligations, there isn’t much room left for them to speak.
This is a hard one for me, Lady of the Capricorn.
Many of us treat rest like a reward that magically appears after everything is finished, except everything is never finished, especially when you own a business, write books and a weekly newsletter, have a family, and a demanding, adorable cat.
I’ve learned since starting this unexpected adventure that the fibula is a stabilizing bone, maybe 10-15% weight-bearing. My wise and incredibly kind podiatrist says it is the ‘best’ (haha) bone in one’s leg to break because fibula fractures usually heal faster than other broken leg bones.
That’s me, always striving to be the best. 🏆
My body has taken over scheduling. Healing is the daily work right now. Sitting still is part of the assignment, whether I like it or not. I do not. (Fortunately, I work from home on a laptop.) Pip is very happy to have company day and night.
Somehow I still get in around 2,000 steps every day because, of course, I’m still tracking that—with one foot and a scooter. When I suggested I move up to 3,000 steps, my sister gave me the side-eye.
Moving is important; weight-bearing is not.
Writers need rest. Our brains cannot produce endlessly because some social media expert guru visionary says we need more content. There will always be another post to write, platform to feed, or book to promote.
There will not always be another you if you run yourself into the ground…or ya know, miss a step.
My partner and I see each other about twice a day now. He works upstairs in his office. I’m downstairs for at least a few more weeks. It’s been healthy to miss each other.
There’s anticipation when we see each other again, even if our grand reunion consists of him bringing me a snack. Space doesn’t always mean physical distance.
Space also helps with writing. Walking away from a post or manuscript doesn’t mean we’ve abandoned it. Sometimes we need enough time apart to miss the story and remember what we loved about it.
I live a fairly quiet life most of the time, but these past weeks have been stunningly uneventful. I work. I read. I watch movies and shows. I talk to Pip, who chitters at birdies, chases bugs, snuggles with our shoes (what is that about), and naps.
Nothing exciting happens. Nothing happening can be wonderful. No fresh disaster requiring activating the family group chat and the sister tree, multiple phone calls, a trip to the ER, or another ice pack. I’m full-up, thanks.
I’ve watched puffy pink flowers bloom in my backyard. Lived here fourteen years; never done that. I watch Pip move around the room with the sun.
Time off, in whatever way that looks for you, gives creativity space.
Writers put tremendous pressure on ourselves to make every day productive, inspiring, or useful. Quiet and boring give us space to find what sparks our interest. We don’t have to turn every experience into a lesson, chapter, or another piece of content.
(And yes, I recognize the irony of turning eight weeks on my sofa into an entire article. Welcome to being a writer.) 🙋🏼♀️
You don’t think about carrying your own coffee until you can’t, or walking into another room until getting there requires a scooter, clear pathways, and advance notice.
I miss walking into the kitchen and forgetting what I went in there for.
Something that felt ordinary before now feels kind of enormous, but again, I know it’s temporary. Grateful. Not everyone is so lucky.
Writing gives us small freedoms we overlook, too. We can change our minds, delete a chapter, try again, write something nobody asked for, publish it, or keep it entirely for ourselves.
Ordinary freedoms become precious the minute they disappear.
I can make plans, count the weeks, and tell myself I should be further along by now. My fibula remains unimpressed. Bones heal on their own schedule, as does grief, burnout, and creativity.
We can support the process by resting, following instructions, doing the work, and making good choices, not by bullying our bones, body, or brain into moving faster because the timeline is inconvenient.
Some books arrive quickly. Others fight us for years. Taking longer doesn’t mean we’ve failed; sometimes it simply takes the time it takes, an answer I find both true and deeply annoying. I truly believe books show up when they’re ready, not only when we are.
I haven’t released a new book in five years, y’all. That’s a long time.
Not for lack of material - I’ve been writing. Life intervened, and that’s just how it is right now. But I’m here every Wednesday, and that counts.
For eight weeks, my physical world has mostly consisted of one sofa, one elevated leg, one cat, a knee scooter, a window, my laptop, a bunch of Zooms, fantastic clients, a stack of books, plus help and visits from the people I love.
My life is smaller right now, but it isn’t empty. I’ve worked every day - even the day it happened. I know. 🧐
I also realize that because I’ve worked so hard for fifteen years, this isn’t a career-ending event; rather, it's a change of scenery for me, nothing different for clients. The "if something happens" became "something happened," and I’m still here.
I’ve read, cried, laughed, enjoyed the quiet, and missed people. I’ve accepted help. I’ve learned interesting things on PBS and then watched people make spectacularly bad choices on reality TV, sometimes within the same hour (if you watch Below Deck Med, you know what I mean; if not, it’s better you don’t).
Writing can look small from the outside, too. One person sitting alone with a laptop, putting one word after another because isn’t that what this gig is? One word after another after another after another.
Small does not mean insignificant.
I’m grateful for all the love and support you’ve sent me, and the kindness and generosity of family, neighbors, and friends. I’m ready to walk, drive, and reclaim the independence I took for granted, but I don’t want to forget everything this sofa residency has taught me.
I still worry about money, because I always do and who doesn’t, but I also recognize the privilege in being able to keep working from my sofa, consult with and help my author clients, write this weekly newsletter, and earn a living while my body heals.
My life didn’t stop when it became smaller. I finally had time to notice it more, a lesson I’m putting in my pocket for the future.
Which experiences have taught you to slow down? I’d love to hear.
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