10
Loading video...
By Rachael O'Connor and Felicia Pasadyn
0
Share
Newsweek is a Trust Project member
See more of our trusted coverage when you search.Prefer Newsweek on Googleto see more of our trusted coverage when you search.
I was a Harvard graduate, a marathon runner, a doctor. Then, at 24 years old, I was learning to walk again.
On September 9, I was going for a morning run, as I usually do before heading to the hospital to work as a resident physician. I had parked at the gym that morning, planning to run, take a cycle class, and be in the operating room by 7:30 a.m.
It was supposed to be an ordinary, productive morning. But I never made it back to the gym.
Read More on Life
With one mile left of my run, I entered a crosswalk with the walk signal on, and was hit by a truck traveling at least 45 miles per hour.
I was thrown into the air and landed face down. I was unconscious, but I was told the driver stopped, called 911, and waited with me. I also learned that, when the officer arrived, he assumed I had probably not survived the crash.
But I did survive, albeit with extensive internal injuries. I had a splenic laceration, an adrenal hematoma, bleeding from both kidneys and paraspinal muscles. Additionally, I suffered fractures of my clavicle, manubrium, two ribs, three lumbar transverse processes fractures, and an extensive fracture of the pelvic bone at the base of my spine.
That's not to mention the road rash covering around 30 percent of my body, the deep puncture wounds to my knee, and the contusions covering my face and head.
I needed emergency surgery to control the bleeding, and spent three days in hospital—two in the trauma ICU as my medical team monitored and treated my serious injuries.
Leaving the hospital was only the beginning of a very painful recovery.
...
I am now six weeks out from the accident and still working toward walking normally without a walker. There has been meaningful progress: my pain has improved, several of my fractures appear to be healing well, and I can do more for myself than I could even a few weeks ago. However, my pelvic fracture, knee injuries, and deeper wounds continue to limit me, and my long-term recovery timeline remains uncertain.
The first two weeks after leaving the ICU were particularly brutal. Almost every movement, from rolling over in bed to sitting up or reaching for something, caused significant pain. Even something as ordinary as taking a shower became a major undertaking, and I needed daily injections to prevent blood clots, as my mobility was extremely limited.
Yet, as difficult as the pain was, losing my independence was even more so.
Before the accident, I was used to waking up early, training, serving patients all day, and filling nearly every hour with something productive. Suddenly, I needed help getting in and out of bed, changing clothes, preparing meals, and simply walking to the bathroom. My mom has helped me with virtually everything, and I honestly do not know how I would have gotten through those first weeks without her.
The physical recovery is only part of it. I have restless nights, lingering fear, and moments when I struggle to reconcile my current reality with the life I was living before the accident.
Before my accident, I was a high-functioning resident physician and professional runner for Saucony. I ran a 2:35 marathon, 1:11 half, 32:04 10K, and 15:51 5K. My days were often filled from 4:30 a.m. to 7 p.m. between marathon training, work, and other daily tasks I wanted to accomplish.
I took pride in being independent, disciplined, and able to juggle it all. In a split second, I went from managing this packed schedule to depending on my family and friends for basic activities—like getting dressed, or simply walking from room to room.
I miss running. I miss the freedom of moving without thinking about it. And I miss the feeling that I can simply decide to do something and trust my body to do it.
This kind of change affects much more than your physical abilities. It challenges your identity, your sense of purpose, your patience, and your understanding of what it means to be strong.
Because I know all too well how this feels, I have chosen to share my journey to recovery online, through my pages @wellfeliciafit and @feliciapasadyn. I want people going through something similar to know they are not alone, especially in the painful parts of recovery that others do not always see.
Recovery is a winding road. Sometimes, a good day means walking a few steps farther or finally putting on that pair of socks by myself. Most times, it means accepting that I need to rest.
...
While I am still ambitious and hope to return to medicine and running as fully as I can, I have to take it one day at a time. For now, I am trying to be patient with my body, accept help when I need it, and remain grateful for the progress I am making, even when it feels slow.
Recovery has been a lengthy and more humbling process than I ever imagined, and I could not have done it without my faith.
As a physician, I understand how serious those injuries were. I am incredibly grateful to be alive and present today. I am still working to process how my life was saved in that moment and keep coming back to only one explanation: I was saved by God, and I know He has a greater plan for me.
Sharing the more vulnerable parts of recovery has not always been comfortable. It means showing people a version of myself that is very different from the athlete they knew before, and being honest about the moments when I feel discouraged or overwhelmed.
But if that honesty helps just one person feel less alone, then it is worth it.
Ultimately, I hope sharing my experience reminds people not to take their bodies, their independence, or the ordinary things they can do each day for granted.
I also hope people understand that strength is asking for help, allowing yourself to grieve, and having the patience to take one small step forward when that is all you can manage.
Contact Newsweek editors on this story: Charlotte Nisbet and Emma Lee-Sang
View 0 Comments
Submit Correction
View Editorial & AI Guidelines