How to Cope When You Can’t Exercise: My Injury Recovery Journey

Eight weeks ago, everything changed with one fall and a fractured wrist.

Two days later, surgery. Since then, I’ve been learning a completely different kind of practice—the kind that doesn’t happen on a mat.

I’m used to moving every day. Teaching yoga and Pilates. Playing pickleball for hours. Hiking, lifting, constantly in motion. Movement has always been how I process stress, stay grounded, and feel like myself.

So when that was taken away, I didn’t just lose activity — I lost my outlet.

And what replaced it? My phone.

At first, it felt harmless. A way to pass the time. But slowly, it became my default. Any moment of discomfort, boredom, or restlessness… scroll.

The hardest part hasn’t been the physical healing. It’s been sitting with the mental noise that movement used to quiet.

But over the past few weeks, things have started to shift.

I’ve been able to return to teaching over the last three weeks—but not in the way I’m used to. I’m not demonstrating everything. I’m modifying. Slowing down. Letting that be enough.

And honestly, that’s been its own challenge.

As someone who’s used to fully embodying every class, stepping back has forced me to teach differently. More cueing, less doing. More presence, less performance. It’s uncomfortable—but it’s also stretching me in a new way.

Outside of teaching, I’ve been reaching out more—to friends, to my community. Not just texting, but actually connecting. And something I didn’t expect? Being there for other people has helped me just as much as it’s helped them. Being of service, even in small ways, has given my days more meaning again.

I’ve also shifted how I move. I can’t do what I used to, but I can still get outside. What used to be two days a week of hiking has now become five—shorter, slower, about an hour at a time. Not intense, not performance-driven. Just movement, fresh air, and space to think.

It’s not the same. But it’s something.

And I’m learning that “something” matters.

Lately, when I feel the pull to check out and scroll, I try something simple:

I stop for ten minutes. I lie down, breathe, or just sit without doing anything. Not perfectly. Just enough to interrupt the habit.

And more often than I expected, that’s enough.

Healing is slower than I want. Quieter than I’m used to. And a lot more mental than physical.

But maybe this is part of the practice too—not pushing, not performing, but staying present… even here.