Preface: A version of this text first appeared in Discovering Ratchet (the now-defunct blog) on March 2, 2016 under the title “That Time I Stopped Being a Cripple“. It is reproduced here, with edits.

Yesterday, I did box jumps. Lateral hops. Mobility drills with the ladder – the kind you see boxers do. No big deal, right? Wrong.

In Grade 5, I dislocated my knee in ballet class. That one freak accident triggered five years of medical chaos: weekly physio, chronic inflammation, and, by 16, advanced osteoarthritis in one knee. Six surgeries under general anesthetic during adolescence left me with significant permanent hair loss – a source of self-consciousness to this day. I spent more time in wheelchairs, on crutches, or in casts than walking freely. I missed half of Grade 9, recovering from my first knee reconstruction.

My orthopedic surgeon was brilliant, but his bedside manner was nonexistent. He’d prod and poke my body like a slab of meat at the butcher’s, speak about me as if I wasn’t in the room, and scold my mother for my lack of physiotherapy dedication. Little did he know of the daily wars that raged at home as I tried to avoid the repetitive and painful physio exercises, while my mom nagged, pleaded, and bribed me into halfhearted compliance. Rationally, I knew daily physio was my ticket back to health, but emotionally, it felt as if “cripple” was my entire identity. I rebelled.

In Grade 10, Dr. Doom-and-Gloom declared my rehab complete: no more surgeries. His parting words: my osteoarthritis would degenerate until I required an artificial knee by 30. If I was diligent – kept a healthy weight (thinner than I was at the time, he added), avoided all weight-bearing activity, and stuck to gentle swimming – I might be able to delay the surgery by a few years. Artificial knees, he reminded me, rarely lasted more than 5 years and didn’t allow for what anyone would call a “pleasant” experience. With that, he wished me luck.

My mother, herself struggling with severe chronic health issues, was distraught at this prognosis. She made it her business to remind me: never run, just walk; never jump, always, always, forever, be careful of my knees.

At 20, I couldn’t walk down stairs without limping. I’d collapse into chairs because my legs couldn’t manage the downwards motion in a controlled way. Winters kept me mostly housebound: my knee would lock, the arthritis pain made me nauseous, and the thought of slipping on icy sidewalks was petrifying . My then boyfriend – a former athlete – was baffled by my attitude. “That doctor is not God,” he said. “You’re not doomed, you’re just weak.” He introduced me to strength training, and slowly, under his guidance, I gained muscles and my limp mostly faded. For that gift of empowerment, I’m forever grateful .

At 25, I took up kickboxing (French savate). At first, I couldn’t even hop on one leg: the neural pathway between brain and muscle wasn’t there. With patience and repetition, I rebuilt what had been lost for years. When I kickboxed, I felt connected to the child who’d lived for her ballet classes. I walked straighter, no longer keeping my gaze glued to the ground, scanning for hidden dangers that would trip me up. This new connection to my body was intoxicating.

At 29, I blew out my knee again, during a kickboxing competition. The injury was brutal. The emergency doctor was categorical: I’d never again kickbox. It took three months to walk without aid, another three before I’d regained some of my mobility but none of my hard-earned strength. I’d barely tasted freedom and, through my own recklessness, I was once again prisoner of my body.

Boxing was my mother’s idea, oddly enough. She’d never liked my kickboxing: too many twists and pivots, she said, too much risk. But after my injury, seeing my depression and the loss of hope that had come with it, she suggested boxing as a compromise. “It’s some of the same moves, isn’t it sweetie? But it doesn’t use your legs as much. Surely 50% of what you love is better than nothing, right? Just, please be careful of your nose, it would be a pity if you broke it.”

And that’s how I came to Coach Lou at UD Performance.

Coach Lou believes in evidence-based training, rehab, and performance management. He reads voraciously, questions everything, attends many seminars. For him, optimal performance is always possible, with the right information, tools, dedication and hard work. Injuries don’t define an athlete: they’re just part of the journey, and must be managed accordingly.

For the past three years, under Coach Lou’s watch, I’ve trained and conditioned myself until I can jump 2 feet high, again and again, easily. My body feels strong. Alive. I can trust my legs will support me. For the first time, I identify myself as an athlete. I’m 31 and my knee works just fine thankyouverymuch. Sure, it creaks and aches, and maybe one day it’ll wear out. But right now, I can jump, without fearing the repercussions of landing. For the first time in 20 years.

It feels like flying.