What a Skiing Injury Taught Me About Trauma
The bump emerged from the flat white terrain through my legs first. If my eyes would've detected it, I could have skied it easily even with my just-one-more-run legs. Sometimes the sun washes out the terrain and you ski by instinct. This often feels exhilarating and powerful. Sometimes it feels like the world drops out from underneath you.
My life changed one year ago today.
My life changed one year ago today with a significant spiral fracture that landed me in the hospital for 24 days. The following is a mix of fragments I wrote at the time and reflections I’ve had over the past year as I’ve learned about myself, about trauma, and about the power of human connection.
I learned to ski as an adult partially due to economics put mostly because of geography. Growing up in Ohio and central Pennsylvania didn't offer many opportunities for downhill skiing.
The second mogul wasn't as forgiving as the first even though I was anticipating another impact, or maybe it was unforgiving precisely because of my bracing anticipation. I didn't know there would be another bump, but the first one made me suspicious as I tried to regain control in the air. Visually the hill was as smooth as the groomed trails I had skied all day with the family, but in reality, there was just enough of a drop to catch me by surprise.
This ski season was the first year I felt confident on the slopes, like really comfortable and at ease with letting go and letting loose. I attribute the new-found sense of being at one with the mountain to years of personal work I've done and the custom-molded insoles I recently purchased for my ski boots.
Growing up I remember saving bread bags in the winter so we could make our snow boots water-proof. We did this by encasing our felt boot liners in Wonder Bread packaging so we could eke out a few more hours in the snow before coming in with numb toes. Until two seasons ago when we committed to making skiing our primary winter activity, we were still renting ski equipment that never quite fit, and even though it got the job done, it had a bit of that bread-bag quality of my childhood.
This year I had my own skis, poles, and custom fitted boots and it was a beautiful thing.
It has never been easy to trust myself.
Trusting myself instead of my anxiety has been a lifelong struggle and you'll find me on the edge of most activities dipping my toe in the water more often than diving in. For the most part, I've made peace with my anxiety and the myriad factors that contributed to my strong sense of, "it's better to be safe than sorry."
Finally, at the end of an amazing ski season, I was coming into my own and beginning to carve up the mountain in ways I could only have imagined as a timid skier in rental boots just 10 years earlier.
I don't recall thinking anything when I was in the air between these two bumps. I do recall the visceral feeling of surprise and that out of control feeling in my stomach that feels like pumping your brakes on ice.
I've taken that quick inhale on the mountain in the past right before wiping out. If I had time to think, I likely would have envisioned the worst-case scenario — eating it and getting up sheepishly to retrieve my skies that would have released from their bindings and slid down the hill a few yards away. Hey, it happens, and that's why they make bindings that release when you wipeout.
Bindings are designed to release your boot from the ski when they detect an intact leg beginning to apply a significant twisting force. The key is a structurally sound leg.
Content warning: You can scroll past the graphic description of a leg injury to “Trauma resources are for therapists too.”
As best as I can tell, the second impact fractured my tibia which no longer applied the adequate twisting force to release the binding from my ski, but instead, transferred that twisting force to my tibia and fibula which began to fracture and grind the bones beneath my knee.
I didn't count, but I rolled somewhere between two and three times before stopping — each turn flopped my leg and attached ski around like a rag doll. Later, I would learn from members of the trauma team that this motion not only produced the long spiral fractures, but it also ground my tibial plateau into "mush" or "dust" which were terms my surgeon used to describe what she found when she pieced my leg back together.
When I came to rest, my right leg was twisted 90-degrees off to the side and slightly uphill from the rest of my body. As my brain began to make sense of the scene, it sent a signal to move my leg but it was unresponsive. I’ve experienced a similar sense of disconnection from my leg throughout my recovery process, but at that moment it was as if my leg was no longer there. I crawled up the hill a few feet with the help of my functioning limbs and realign the dead weight of my broken leg with my body again.
I began yelling, "Help, broken knee!" because I thought I'd blown out my knee and the pain was beginning to feel hot and tingly like a silent scream that gets stuck in your throat but you're afraid to swallow for fear you'll drown.
I have a history of saying, "nope" and "this is not happening" when it comes to physical pain, especially the kind that renders you powerless. This denial goes back almost as far as I can remember, which probably has something to do with the way traumatic memories burrow deep into young bodies and linger into adulthood. I was surprised, when instead of turning away and disconnecting, I began to lean into my experience and connect with the humans who began to gather around me.
Trauma resources are for therapists too.
I've learned a few things working with trauma over the years, and while healers often struggle to heal themselves, I began to practice some of the techniques many of my clients have found helpful. I knew my nervous system needed support to process the physical trauma I had just experienced and was still very much in the middle of. I began to take slow deep breaths and hummed deep into my chest and abdomen gently reassuring my body and connecting with the moment.
As fellow skiers, and eventually, ski patrol showed up I made a point to look into their eyes and connect with them human-to-human. I know how therapeutic this connection can be from my side of the therapy room, and I've learned to ask for this social connection when I need it too.
We need each other.
It turns out that we humans need each other. While this is hardly a radical idea, when you’re lying on the side of the mountain with a broken leg, it drives home the reality that you can't make it on your own.
This is when the gratitude started to take over, and between deep breaths and connecting with my caregivers, I began thanking them for being present for me. I don't recall crying due to the pain even though it hurt like nothing I had experienced before, but I teared up repeatedly when I tried to express my overwhelming sense of gratitude for their presence — their warm assuring voices, their soft eyes, their hands holding mine.
As I realized I was going to survive this experience, my parenting brain kicked in and I desperately wanted my boys to know that I was going to be okay. I wanted them to know we would get through this even though it looks and feels scary now. I know it was hard for my wife to see me strapped down in the sled as I got back down to the lodge, but I'm glad my boys didn't see me in this state or hear my yells for help on the mountain.
I’ll share more in future posts about the ambulance ride down the mountain, my 24-day hospital stay, the surgeries, the physical therapy, the work I’ve done with my nervous system in my therapist’s office, and the amazing humans who have supported my recovery in countless ways.
The power of being seen.
If you’ve read this far, thank you for bearing witness to my experience. Some of the most powerful words I’ve ever heard or said are, “I see you. I hear you. I believe you.” If I’m honest, I prefer to be the one saying these words and offering safety and support for my clients.
One of the most impactful things I’ve learned about trauma through my recovery is that it’s okay to be seen just as you are. It’s okay to be heard even when words can’t capture your agony. It’s life-changing to have your experience validated and accepted.
Today is the anniversary of my injury and I was back on the mountain, not because I just can’t give up skiing, but because it felt like an important step in my recovery process to trust my body again and to integrate what happened then into my life now. But more about that later.
This is me today, one year after my injury trusting my body again on the slopes. I’m grateful for the amazing humans in my life who have made today possible. Thank you!
If this blog post resonated with you, I would love to stay in touch. Feel free to include your first name and email below and choose which resources you’re interested in learning more about. You’re also welcome to comment below.
Here’s to continued healing!
-Brian Peck, LCSW
Brian Peck, LCSW, is a licensed clinical social worker specializing in religious trauma and supporting folks with a history of adverse religious experiences. In addition to supporting trauma survivors’ recovery, Brian is passionate about reducing the stigma attached to non-believers, especially those who have exited high-demand religious communities.