ME v. ME: Skis + Knees
My parents turned me loose on a pair of skis at the ripe age of 3 years old. And I've been skiing out west and on all kinds of terrain for well over a decade now — hitting jumps, ducking in and out of tree lines, skiing switch, and some other questionable things that we’ll leave out for my parent’s peace of mind. So, I feel pretty confident about my abilities. Never in a million years did I think I would tear my ACL on a little ski trip with my friends…on the first run...and a green nonetheless.
My friends' experience levels ranged from “I’ve skied a few times” to “I’ve never even buckled a ski boot before,” and naturally, I was prepared to show off. (Huge mistake.)
First run of the day, we set off down the main run, the beginner slope. I usually get bored on those flat catwalks, so I like to play around and hit the little jumps and bumps along the sides to keep things interesting. About halfway down, I hit one and landed it, but within seconds, every skier’s worst nightmare manifested itself. My knee buckled, and I went straight to the ground.
I lay there, mentally assessing my body, terrified to move. My friends skied up, reassuring me with, “It’s okay! No one saw you fall!” As if that’s what I was worried about. I immediately yelled back, “No, you don’t understand, I didn’t fall,” followed by some more colorful language. I popped off my skis and sat on the side of the run, elbows on my knees, trying to process what had just happened. I described to my friends what I felt—the sharp, deep twinge in my knee—and convinced myself I just tweaked it. I stood up, took a few steps, and... my kneecap started wiggling around in my knee like a repelling magnet. And that’s when I knew. I was done for.
Ski patrol came to my rescue, and I was taken down the mountain in the dreaded sled. They assessed me as best they could but couldn’t give me a definitive diagnosis until I got a scan. Back at the lodge, I crutched my way inside, my mind a whirlwind of anger. Not sadness. Not panic. Just rage. I was so pissed off that I couldn't ski the rest of the trip. Pissed that I was going to have to sit on the sidelines for the foreseeable future. And after my diagnosis, pissed that I was going to miss out on the next 6 months of my life.
I sat there blank and numb as the doctor told me that I had a complete ACL tear, partial MCL tear, and partial LCL tear. He said, "Hey, look on the bright side, at least your meniscus is okay. That’s huge!" I bitterly thought to myself, “Yeah, great, Charles, we're just three for four on tearing major ligaments. Sweet.”
As I mentally processed the injury, my mind raced through all the things I was about to miss: three upcoming ski trips, my entire season with the Ski Team, duck hunting season, and—just to make it hurt a little more—spin instructor onboarding at a new studio I’d been so excited about.
Rehabilitation was brutal, and 10 months later, I’m still doing physical therapy. For six hours a week, my body became my full-time job. My days of worrying about date parties and what I would wear to the next event seemed frivolous. My focus shifted to rebuilding the trust I’d lost in my own body. I had so little faith in its strength. If I could break this easily, what else could break?
Before my injury, I lived like I was invincible. But now? I felt fragile. Like a porcelain doll, I was terrified of shattering again.
What made it even more challenging was that most of my friends seemed to forget I’d even torn my ACL. I never milked my injury and mostly wanted to conceal it. I got my brace off two weeks early because I’d worked so hard to get rid of it. Partly because I was determined to heal faster and partly because that brace was the bane of my existence. (Plus, it ruined every single outfit!) But ditching the brace didn’t mean I was done. My rehab journey was still far from over. I just wanted to get back to being me.
My injury challenged me far more mentally than physically. I questioned everything. If my body could break this easily, what did that say about my future? Would I ever trust it again?
About 8 weeks after my surgery, I developed tendonitis in my good knee, which nearly sent me into a spiral. But something my physical therapist, Kayli, said to me changed my perspective. She said, “Makayla, recovery isn’t linear. There will be ups and downs, and right now, you’re at a low point. So now we work to climb back up.”
And that’s what we did. Step by step, I learned that healing, whether physical or mental, isn’t a straight path. It’s a rollercoaster of progress and setbacks, and sometimes, the biggest battle isn’t with your body but with your mind.
In the end, tearing my ACL taught me something I didn’t expect—resilience. It forced me to face limitations and realize that being strong isn’t about pretending you’re unbreakable. It’s about recognizing when you’re fragile and pushing forward anyway.
So, while I never imagined I’d be writing about how I tore my ACL on a beginner run, I also never imagined how much that moment would change me. I’m not the same person I was before. I’m stronger, but not in the way I once thought. I’ve learned that true strength is knowing how to fall apart and put yourself back together again. And as much as I miss the feeling of invincibility, I’ve gained something far more valuable—endurance.
Recovery isn’t linear, but neither is life.
