I have always been one to push limits. Not the ones placed on me by others for I go to great lengths to avoid getting in trouble, but the limits that I place on myself and the physical limits that a human body can endure. If I step on the treadmill intending to run only two miles, and the thought happens to cross my mind that I should really run four, I will push myself until I complete all four miles without stopping or slowing down. I feel obligated by myself to accomplish whatever absurd goals I set; I feel that if I fail at the nearly impossible, I am mentally weak. I convinced myself that even though I was pushing these limits and setting these nearly unattainable goals, everything would be okay in the end. Until a certain point, I was living in this world where I was willing to push myself to a dangerous brink because I believed nothing truly terrible would happen to me.

Throughout the past four years, I have had several visits to the emergency room or the urgent care resulting from sports injuries. For each ailment, I was informed that if I had not kept playing and if I had not pushed myself so hard, the damage done would not have been so bad. For example, if I had not kept playing after bruising my spleen and rupturing part of my kidney, my time off would have been three days and not eight weeks. If I had not kept playing after hurting my rib, it would have only been bruised and not broken. Each time after learning this news, I would feel regret that I had not been smart enough or disciplined enough to know when to quit and accept the concept that I am not Superwoman. But at the same time, part of me does not regret my choice because by making the choice that I did, I was getting to do something that I loved and because I believed I was making myself a stronger person for sticking with it. I was always a firm believer in the phrase, “when the going gets rough, the tough keep going.” By quitting, I was displaying a weakness, something that I do everything possible to avoid.

Until last spring, I still had this feeling of invincibility. I believed nothing worse than a brief rehabilitation period would ever happen to me. After an injury would bench me for at least six weeks, I was always confident that I would bounce right back and be in prime shape the second that my timeout expired. This feeling continued after I got the first of three serious head injuries in a period of three months. After suffering the usual array of symptoms for approximately a week, I lied to the athletic trainer and denied the presence of any symptoms. I wanted to play soccer so bad, I was willing to risk another head injury. With the belief the first concussion was a result of a fluke, I refused to accept that I was in any danger. At the time, I believed the chance of another concussion was so slim, that it was actually nonexistent. Then, a mere week later, the impossible happened. I sustained another concussion with only three minutes left in the game. Afterwards, even though I could not remember the day of the week and even though I suffered from symptoms for over a month and a half, I believed it was all worth it because I had gotten to do something I loved and because I had not submitted to the fear that I would be injured again. Having this fear would make me a weak person.

After the second head injury, I was in denial and refused to accept the possibility that I could have permanent brain damage and that I might not be able to return to soccer again. I believed that I would be healthy enough to play the following spring, assuming nothing happened to me until then. The second concussion was even more of a fluke than the first; how many possible flukes can a person possibly have? The point of a fluke is that they rarely happen. I believed that I was going to be one hundred percent fine. I started taking chances again, and began pushing my limits. I played football, Frisbee, volleyball, basketball, and tennis despite the fact I was forbidden to play any contact sports. I ignored the fact that I was four times as likely to sustain another head injury. I felt this probability was small enough for me to continue risking it, all in the name of having fun.

It was while I was having fun that I hit my head again. Perhaps it was this bonk that awakened me to my vulnerability. Suddenly, the remote possibility that I would never be able to play soccer again became a high likelihood, and still threatens me every single day. The frequent trips to numerous doctors with scary sounding titles, the MRIs and CT scans, the blanking out on words, the dizziness, the mental and exertional testing, the difficulty speaking and thinking, and the nine different bottles of pills prescribed to me all began to put things into perspective. I became aware to the concept of life-altering injury. No rehab for a few weeks, but a lifetime of pain management. A lifetime of having to live my life differently than I have for the past seventeen years. It felt surreal; I had to wear sunglasses when driving at night, I had to take sleeping pills to get enough sleep, I had to change my diet to eliminate all caffeine, I had to allow twice the usual amount of time to complete my homework. I couldn’t even bend down to tie my own shoes. I was forced to transition from playing two sports nearly every season to indefinitely not being able to perform any exertional task. No shooting hoops, no push-ups of sit-ups; I couldn’t even play in the backyard with my puppy. I suddenly realized everything that I had risked when I pushed my limits.

After my awakening, I have become paranoid. I catch the movement of a bird’s shadow out of the corner of my eye, and I duck and cover my head in response. I become extremely nervous when riding as a passenger in a car. When in a room with any kind of ball, I stand with my back to the wall and my eyes constant scan the room, making sure I am not in danger. I become irate when I am tailgated while driving, because what if that person were to hit me? I could lose everything that I am ever so slowly gaining back.