The Weight of Stillness
A Note from the Author: I am currently three weeks post-op and preparing to head back to work full-time on Monday. However, I recently found this entry I wrote just five days after my surgery. I’ve decided to share it now, raw and unfiltered, because while I am standing taller today, the “Weight of Stillness” is a real, heavy part of the journey that we don’t talk about enough. This was my Day 5.
Ladies, I’m gonna be real and vulnerable for a minute.
I feel fat, old, and gross right now… I feel weak, broken, and useless. I feel exhausted, stressed the hell out and, honestly, I feel like a bystander in my own life. Like the universe decided I’d had a good ride on the bow of the ship and it was time to drop me back into the storm to see if I’d sink or swim.
And part of me feels like this is my own fault. Had I listened to my body sooner, gone to the doctor, and stopped trying to prove myself to absolutely no one, maybe I wouldn’t be in this position. I’m five days post‑op and I feel like pure $hit — and it’s not just physical. Mentally, I’m struggling.
My surgeon said I won’t be able to strength train or lift weights for a minimum of six months. I asked him if I could ride a recumbent bike — you know, the ones with the chair‑seat — and he said no. He told me I could walk. He said that walking needs to be my best friend. And I’m doing that. I was up and walking in the hospital within hours. I walked through Target on my second day home. We even went on a short nature walk this afternoon. But no other exercise at all.
And this is the same surgeon who wrote in my assessment plan, “She is an avid workout person.”
I had already adjusted my workouts for more than six months after losing all the strength in my right arm and shoulder. Most of my upper‑body work stopped because of the weakness and pain. And we all know the cliché — if you don’t use it, you lose it — and guess what? I lost it. I slowly lost the muscle in my right shoulder, bicep, and chest that I’d spent six years building. And that was before the surgery.
Now add two full weeks without lifting and the trauma of surgery itself, and what I saw in the mirror tonight after my shower didn’t feel like my body.
I have loose skin from years of yo‑yo dieting and eclampsia when I was pregnant with my firstborn son, Larry. Nothing but surgery can eliminate it, but building muscle helps fill it out and make it less saggy. Muscle helps me feel strong on the outside the way I feel on the inside. It helps me feel good in my skin. And as a woman, that matters. It just does.
So I’ve lost muscle, my body is retaining water, I’m swollen from surgery — all normal — but my mind is spiraling about how long it will be before I can lift again. It all compounded, and it all hit me tonight when I caught a glimpse of my naked body in the mirror. I had a mini meltdown.
Right now, tonight, I don’t feel beautiful at all. I feel like an old, fat, gross blob of loose skin. Yes, I know it’s temporary. Yes, I know the swelling will go down. Yes, I know I’ll rebuild the muscle once the fusion solidifies. But knowing doesn’t make me feel better in this moment.
According to The Advanced Spine Center of New York, “Bone fusion is gradual. Initial bone bridging begins around 6–8 weeks post‑surgery. Solid fusion where vertebrae are mechanically stable typically requires 6–12 months.”
So I’ll be out of heavy‑lifting commission for a while. And that means I’m going to have to find a way to deal with what I see in the mirror. I will — just not tonight. And I’m sure there will be more meltdowns before this is over. And that’s okay. I’m allowed to feel how I feel.
I’ll keep writing and sharing these thoughts and feelings because if I’ve learned anything, it’s that I’m not the only one going through this. Somewhere out there, right now, another woman just caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror after ACDF or some other surgery and had her own meltdown over what she saw.
So, tonight, I’ll let the mirror have its say. I’ll let the tears fall for the muscle I’ve lost and the ‘indestructible’ version of me that feels so far away. But tomorrow, I’ll try to remember what that reflection really shows.
That loose skin? It’s the first home Larry and his little brother, Darrin, ever had. Those tired eyes have seen twenty years of hard labor and thousands of pounds of iron. This body isn’t a ‘blob’—it’s a sanctuary under repair.
I might be a bystander in the gym for now, but I am the lead architect of my recovery. A construction site is always a mess before the grand opening, and right now, my body is doing the hardest work it’s ever done. It’s fusing. It’s knitting. It’s holding onto a titanium promise that my Third Chapter will be lived on my own terms.
I am allowed to have the meltdown, and I am allowed to feel the grief of what I’ve lost. But I’m also allowed to believe that my strength is just dormant, not gone. Tomorrow, I’ll wake up, I’ll drink my cold water, and I’ll take my walk. I’ll be the Guardian of my own healing. Because even when the indestructible feels broken, she’s still the one holding the pen. And this chapter is far from over.”