When I was a toddler, my Dad nicknamed me “Bruiser.” I broke my first bone at the age of 6, and by the time I was 25, I’d broken my wrists, collectively, seven times. I suppose you could call me injury-prone, but I just thought I was more “accident-prone.” I never really thought much of this – I played hard, and I crashed hard – it was just part of being an active kid.
But I wasn’t in the world of endurance sports, and I certainly wasn’t a runner. Stress injuries were foreign to me, as was the silent stigma that surrounded them.
From an early age, I’ve never been one to hold things in – sadness, disappointment, anger, fear – they’ve always just exploded out of me. So when I cracked my femur back in 2016, I didn’t think twice about sharing that with the world. For better or worse, I’ve always been an open book, and I work through my emotions by writing and sharing. People were incredibly supportive, and I’m grateful for that. What I did not expect, however, was the flood of questions from the peanut gallery: