From injury to innovation: A personal story of hope

The Moment of Loss

This picture was taken in 2017. It was at an Athletes in Action (AIA) fund raising event, a gathering where we, the athletes, shared our journeys.

At this moment, I was seven months into my ACL (anterior cruciate ligament) recovery, a journey that was as painful as it was humbling.

And I had been asked to share a bit about my journey—a journey that felt like it had just been shattered by an unexpected blow.

And that was hard.

I'm pretty sure that in this conversation, my tears spoke louder than my words ever could.

In simple terms, an ACL tear is like a rope inside your knee snapping when you push it too far. It makes your knee less stable and can be painful, but with the right treatment, you can recover.        

The Fall and Rise

In the months leading up to my injury, I had finally begun to enjoy hockey again. I was making strides, not just on the field but within myself.

I was finally backing myself, finally believing in my potential after a long period of self-doubt and insecurity.

But just as I started to find my rhythm, life threw a curveball. The ACL injury came out of nowhere, striking with such finality the last blow to my dreams.

I can still remember the moment it happened. For one, I never knew my knee was bilingual. I'm pretty sure I heard it speak Xhosa.

The click of my knee was so decisive, almost as if it had finally, after years of silence, mustered the courage to declare its autonomy.         

It was as if my ACL had announced, in the clearest of terms, its independence from my body. Nqa.

That's it: I've seen enough, I've had enough. Bye Felicia. Never to return again.

Caution: Imaginary conversation up ahead

Apparently, it was finally time to move on...

I'm told (by the mcl and pcl) that things had escalated beyond repair. I mean, the least the other ligaments could do was brief me beforehand. I could've done something to save us.

We could have gone to the gym, seen a councillor, physiotherapy could've helped.

Alas, no leave form was signed. It just up and left.?Without warning. Without wavering. Without care.?The sheer audacity of it all was astonishing.

And to make matters worse, it happened on TV—every excruciating detail recorded for the world to see.

The audacity of my ACL's 'exit' and the raw exposure of my pain made for a poignant, albeit unwilling, spectacle.

It wasn't my finest moment, I must add. But did it make for good TV?  I'm pretty sure it did.         

Here's why:

• Profiting off others' pain? Check.
• Insensitive cameraman zooming in on every freckle on my face? Check.
• Criteria for good TV? Drama. Destiny. Desperation. Check. Check. Check.

While I was awaiting the arrival of the tournament, my ACL (it appears) had already planned its departure.

I walked in to Cape Town's International Airport on two legs. But I left on four. I walked in but I was wheeled out.

Not by choice. But by chance. One thing's clear: no one plans for loss. But we all have to manage it.

No one plans on disappointment. But we all have to manage it. That said, it's not always about what we plan for.

Sometimes the way to get over something is to first get through it. Sometimes the 'way over' is paved by the 'way through'.

Haste gets you over it. Patience gets you through it. Haste might get you healed. But haste won't get you whole.

Now Consider This:

• What happens when expected triumph is interrupted by unexpected tragedy?
• What happens when the place of fulfilment becomes a place of frustration?
• What happens when a place of beauty becomes a place of barrenness?

Make no mistake, planning is a good thing. A great thing in fact. But planning isn't everything. And no amount of planning can avert tragedy.         

In fact, it's less about what we do see coming and more about our insistence to move forward in spite of what we don't.

The Death of a Dream

With the snap of that ligament, my dream of being a top-tier athlete was abruptly put on hold. The days that followed were dark.

I grappled with the fear that I had peaked in high school, that maybe I wasn’t as good as I thought.

These are the thoughts that plagued my mind—thoughts that over-thinkers and high-performance athletes alike know all too well.

The injury wasn’t just physical. It was a blow to my identity, to the dream I had nurtured for so long. I lost my ACL, and with it, I lost what I believed was my future.

But in the midst of that loss, something else began to stir within me.

I found solace in writing, a passion that had always been there but had taken a back seat to my athletic pursuits.

As my physical prowess faded, my academic and intellectual abilities began to shine. I discovered that my mind could take me places my body might never could.

In short:

I lost my ACL. But I regained my love for writing.        

I lost my athletic prowess. But I gained academic proficiency.        

I lost my personal success. But I learned to clap for others.        

Even though my heart was breaking. Not because I coveted their success. But because I mourned over what could’ve been my own.

The Unexpected Journey

My identity as an athlete was shelved, albeit temporarily, to make way for an academic and literary blossoming.

Important to note:

This transition wasn’t about replacing one identity with another.

It was about discovering the multifaceted dimensions of self that only surfaced when the familiar was stripped away.

In short:

I learned to appreciate others' victories while nursing my private mourning.

Realizing that the world I wanted to conquer with my athletic prowess could also be embraced through my creative endeavors.

Rediscovering Purpose

The key is this: just because unforeseen tragedy happens doesn’t mean unseen triumph isn’t on the horizon.

The hard truth? You can't always see what's coming. But that doesn't mean it has the power to stop where you're going.

• Pause.
• Breathe.
• Read again.

Life’s twists and turns can obscure our view of the future, but they don’t have the power to stop us from moving forward.

It was in the stillness that followed my injury, that I began to dream new dreams. I lost much, but I also gained much.

I lost a dream, but I gained a new one. I lost opportunities, but new ones also emerged.

Instead of training my muscles, I was training my mind—critically, creatively, spiritually, and intellectually.

I was reawakened to passions that had lain dormant: writing, poetry, and even a fleeting interest in becoming a rapper.

Who hasn’t entertained such ideas in a moment of self-reinvention?

Lol.

From Athlete to Author to Speaker: The Path from Sticks to Pens to Mics

The hockey stick, the pen and the microphone have more in common than one might think.

And all three have been tools of expression for me, ways to connect with others, to help develop myself, those around me, and to foster fulfilling friendships.

Not to mention, all three have been vehicles for leadership, each teaching me valuable lessons about loss and life.

I discovered that leadership isn’t just about standing in the spotlight; it’s about the light within you.

It’s about character, about the sound your life makes—the impact it has on those around you, even when the spotlight is elsewhere.

As I transitioned from the field to other forms of expression, I realized that my life, my story, was making a sound as loud as any goal I’d ever scored (or assisted).

Embracing the Process of Healing

Every Thursday, despite the physical pain blinding me to the possibility of recovery, I led Bible study, declaring the goodness and steadfast nature of God.

Even when my circumstances mocked it.

My injury became less about the physical rupture and more about the spiritual awakening it provoked.

I didn’t have to suffer to encounter God, but in my suffering, I found a more profound, tangible relationship with Him.

It was in this refining fire that I truly grasped the beauty of the wounded yet morally perfect nature of Christ.

My injury didn’t drive me away from God. It drew me toward him. I found healing in His presence, not in self-pity.

This season of isolation and pain became a period of profound wholeness and personal growth.

Healing wasn't the only thing available. Wholeness was too.         

Here's why. His presence did more than physical healing. It gave me emotional wellness. It did things in my character I never knew was so broken.

In short:

It healed how I saw me. Without accolade.?Without achievement.

All the same: I was HIS and HE was mine. My fractured faith was mended, and I began to see my life anew .

The death of an old dream made room for the birth of a new one.

The Philosophical Shift

The moral I drew from this season of unexpected change was clear: life and tragedy are inseparable companions.

But the presence of one doesn't negate the existence of the other.

Good, like God, remains sovereign, even when evil seems momentarily triumphant.

My journey through pain not only brought me closer to God but also realigned my understanding of success, identity, and leadership.

The Resurgence

Healed not just physically but emotionally and spiritually, I returned to hockey stronger than ever, enjoying one of my best seasons yet.

This resurgence wasn't just about reclaiming what was lost but about celebrating the new dimensions of life that my injury unveiled.

My dreams hadn’t died, they had evolved. What once seemed like the end of a path was merely a bend leading to broader horizons.

Leadership Refined

Leadership, I realized, wasn’t about the limelight but about the ability to persevere, to transform pain into purpose.

And to lead from wherever you are—even if it’s from the sidelines or behind the scenes.

I found leadership in writing, in speaking, and in living authentically.

Each tool, whether a hockey stick or a pen, became an instrument of influence, echoing my journey and shaping the lives it touched.

Leaving a Legacy of Light

I learned that light isn't something you find only when you step into the sun.

It’s something you carry within, fueling your journey and guiding others along theirs.

This internal light dictates not only your path but the clarity with which you see the world and the impact you make on it.

In leadership, as in life, it’s not the visibility of your light that matters but its authenticity and its ability to bring illumination where hope seems lost.

Lessons in Loss and Leadership

So, what are the takeaways from this journey of loss and renewal?

Here are the key lessons:

• Dream a New Dream: Embrace new dreams after old ones end.
• Mourn What Was: Allow grief. Then, move forward.
• Reimagine the Future: Turn loss into growth opportunities.
• Train Your Mind: Build resilience through mental and spiritual growth.
• Find Healing: Seek healing in Jesus presence not in self pity.
• Recognize Your Light: Inner light matters more than external validation.
• Leadership Through Service: True leadership is about serving, not the spotlight.

The Journey Continues

As I reflect on this chapter of my life, I’m reminded that the story isn’t over. My journey didn’t end with the loss of my ACL.

It began anew.

The old dream may have died, but the new one is full of possibilities. Here's why.

The story of loss is also a story of leadership—of learning to lead oneself through the darkest valleys and emerging stronger on the other side.

There is an 'other side'. Even if you're not ready to believe it (yet).

Remember this: Your life makes a sound. Regardless of the instrument in your hand.

Friendly warning to us all: don't get too attached to the instrument and miss the true gift: your individuality.

You take you with you where you go. So be kind. To yourself and to others.

Keep in mind:

If you're travelling to the past, travel with purpose. And if you're travelling to the future, travel with possibility.

Wherever you go, make sure that you know that kindness travels with you too.

Use the tools. But never forget that you're the treasure.

THE END