Pacing Through Recovery—And Life

Learning to move at a sustainable pace—whether in healing, movement, or navigating the world.

Last week, I wrote about fear—how it took over, where it led me, and what I learned. This week, I’ve been thinking about pacing—not just in movement, but in healing, in survival, and in navigating the challenges of this time.

At the end of July, I significantly injured my foot and was non-weight bearing for over a month. No one warned me about muscle atrophy or how tight and stiff my muscles would become. I expected some weakness and discomfort, but I also thought I would bounce right back. Turns out, my forty-five-year-old body heals differently than my twenty-five-year-old body did.

By mid-September, I was ready to start taking short walks around my favorite local pond. In the spring, I had spotted a cormorant with only one wing. She couldn’t fly. and diving for fish was surely more difficult, yet she continued to thrive. I named her Cora. She became my summer mascot, though I didn’t expect her to foreshadow my own struggles. I watched her all summer and fall until her pond froze, and she hopped into the river in search of warmer waters. I like to think she found them.

I was eager to get back outside to see her. My first 0.88-mile walk took me 49 minutes and 38 seconds. I thought a lot about my grandma as I shuffled along, and Cora’s presence encouraged me as I passed the fallen tree she used as a perch. While I was injured, people sometimes asked what I was doing with my “downtime,” which struck me as a peculiar question. As the only adult in my home, caring for my eight-year-old while unable to bear weight on one foot, there was no downtime. Everything took longer. I had to plan ahead in ways I wasn’t used to, anticipate delays, and prioritize only what was essential. The injury forced me to slow down and be intentional with my time, a lesson I hadn’t realized I needed.

What Running Taught Me About Pacing

In October, my physical therapist told me it might take a full year for my foot and leg to fully recover. My first instinct was despair, but then something activated in me: Hell no. This is not going to take a full year.

I started swimming three times a week, walking regularly, and planned to reintroduce light jogging as soon as I could. The first time I tried jogging, I only made it about 20 feet before realizing I had made a huge mistake. I could feel I had torn some of the healing muscle from the deep gash in my foot, setting my recovery back by a week.

By the end of November, I knew the tissue had healed, and I set out to jog again. I wanted to complete a full mile. My old pattern was to start at a 9-minute mile pace, after months of being sedentary, burn out, walk, push too hard again, and ultimately quit. But this time, I focused on sustainability. My first mile took me 11:48—a time I once would have dismissed as too slow. But I wasn’t trying to prove anything. I was listening to my body, and I was proud of myself. I had gone a whole mile without stopping, something that had seemed impossible just months before.

Instead of worrying about how I looked to others as a middle-aged, slow runner (because, let’s be honest, I am both of those things), I focused on what allowed me to keep going. One of the gifts of middle age has been learning to release external expectations and do what works for me.

Swimming and the Art of Slowing Down

Swimming has taught me pacing in a different way. I hadn’t swum regularly since middle school, aside from a few sprint-distance triathlons in my thirties. After months of being sedentary, swimming felt good. The water eased my foot and leg, letting me rebuild strength without overstraining.

Swimming has also taught me to embrace routine. I once found it boring, but now I challenge myself with different drills, and it has become a respite for my thoughts. I’ve learned that I don’t enjoy sprinting. And therefore I don’t have to do it. But I’ve also learned that sometimes, sprinting is exactly what I need—to burn off stress, anger, and frustration in a way that feels cathartic.

Then there’s elementary backstroke—the slowest, most ridiculous stroke of all. I never see anyone else do it but it’s the best one, I swear. I love gliding on my back, feeling the water support me, moving effortlessly through the pool. Unless, of course, I misjudge the distance and slam into the wall.

Swimming has become self-care, meditation, movement, and energy all at once. Some days, I move slowly and mindfully. Some days, I push myself hard. It’s all pacing. It’s all listening.

Pacing Through This Political Moment

I’ve been thinking a lot about how pacing isn’t just about movement—it’s about how we survive.

For many trans and queer people, this moment is exhausting. The constant attacks on our rights, the fear, the grief—it’s a lot. The urge to fight harder, to do more, to push through can be strong. But just like running, if we go too hard too fast, we’ll burn out before we finish the first mile.

And just like swimming, sometimes we need to glide, to let the water hold us. And sometimes, we need to sprint—to release the weight of what we’re carrying before it consumes us.

Pacing doesn’t mean ignoring urgency. It means moving in a way that allows us to keep going. It means knowing when to rest and when to push. It means allowing ourselves to exist in both slowness and intensity, knowing that both are necessary.

How Are You Pacing Yourself?

I’m still learning—last week, I accidentally sprinted a marathon. But I’m learning to listen—to my body, to my limits, to what’s actually working instead of what I think should work.

For me, that looks like taking longer to respond to messages and allowing that to be okay. It means recognizing when I need time with community, time in nature, or time alone—and setting boundaries accordingly. It means focusing my energy on relationships that feel supportive and letting go of those that don’t.

What about you? How are you pacing yourself through this moment?