A year ago, I broke my foot.

On Monday, February 15, 2021 at 1045am, I left the ground with a whole left 5th metatarsal and came down with one in 4 pieces.

A few weeks ago, I started to feel a looming sense of foreboding. I was tender and weepy, crying at everything. Inexplicably and amorphously afraid.

It seemed odd but I started to wonder if it was the approaching anniversary (or rather string of anniversaries: the accident, the x-ray, the surgery, the cast, the panic attacks) that was at the root of this encroaching and intensifying vulnerability.

Does some part of me think I’m going to break my foot this year? Does my brain believe all those painful, difficult things are going to happen again? Intellectually, I know that’s highly unlikely. So what was causing the creeping feelings of dread?

Awake in the middle of the night with these bubbling sensations of apprehension and hypersensitivity, I sat with all the feeling. What is it, exactly, that’s happening?

After sitting in the dark for a while, the image that came was me walking along a narrow and precarious path.

On one side is the utterly fragile, ephemeral nature of living. If my foot (and my life as I know it) can be shattered in a second, then anything could happen. Any sense of stability or permanence is an illusion.

On the other side, is the overwhelming sense of wonder and gratitude for, well, everything. For my body, for my doctors, for the ability to unload the dishwasher and stand in the shower. But not just that, also for grapefruits and fleece shirts and the taste of chocolate and the squirrel who is building a nest outside my studio window. I am teetering between the excruciating reality of perilous uncertainty and the excruciating wonder of the world.