Lux Alani

My gait through the gym after deadlifts could be mistaken for swagger, or a drunk catwalk.

Truth is, I'm willing myself not to limp.

I hate limping.

Not long ago I was learning to skate a banked roller derby track, hollering, "This is the most legal fun I've had in ages!" Becoming a rollergirl in my 40s was the first time my body bit back. It was a counterpoint to modeling, complete with bruises and a jammer star.

Then one split second changed everything.

A catastrophic ankle injury. Months of recovery. Learning that pain is one thing, but helplessness is another.

Friends showed up for me in countless ways, but recovery was still an intensely solitary battle to heal and keep my s**t together. The only thing I trusted completely was my writing. Pen to page, I escaped the suck and entered story instead.

The hardest part wasn't losing strength, or mobility, or trust in my body.

It was wondering if I'd lost the version of myself that always said, Hell yeah. The woman who chased skill, thrills, and the edge of her own potential.

Forfeiting that identity would be gutting. But maybe identity isn't something your body gives you. Maybe it's something you keep choosing. Dents be damned.

I'm rebuilding from the ankle up.

Still limping like a model in too-high heels.

Still putting my whole self into something I love–because that’s who I am.

That, at least, is still mine. ✊🏼

Grab a pen. 😈

**tToAgeless