Broken Bones, Broken Habit

On quieting the internal critic

When you break a rib, you know it immediately.

Back in the early 2000s, I used to teach and train Muay Thai in NYC. With an upcoming national tournament in Virginia, I was in the gym twice a day, doing heavy bag and pad work in the early mornings, sparring in the evenings, six days a week.

Two weeks before my fight, I was sitting on the side of the ring, drenched, having finished my evening sparring session. One of the pro fighters we trained with came in late, and asked if I’d partner with him. I was exhausted, and knew he tended to go heavy, so I turned him down. 

“Just a couple rounds,” he said. 

I put my gloves and shinguards back on, popped my mouthguard in, and stepped back into the ring. 

After we exchanged a few combos from outside range, he grabbed me into a clinch, pulling me close and throwing a knee up toward my right side. I put my right arm out to hold him off at the shoulder, which he slipped, leaving my ribs wide open. 

As soon as the knee hit me, I dropped to the canvas, wheezing, clutching my right side. Months of exhausting training, starving myself to make weight, all of it for naught. I got up gingerly and walked to the showers, holding my cracked rib, and already kicking myself.

I lay awake that night, thinking: Fucking idiot. Why’d you have to get back into the ring? How stupid can you be? This is all your fault.

This voice was so harsh, yet so constant, I didn’t notice it. It was coming from somewhere within, so I just thought it was “me.” I never stopped to wonder about it. 

Throughout my twenties, thirties—even into my forties—this voice was with me. Questioning every perceived misstep with some version of: What the fuck is wrong with you?

I’d lie awake over something I’d blurted at a party that I thought was dumb. I’d pummel myself over any slip-up at work. The amount of misery I heaped on myself was immeasurable.

Forget sparring. Beating myself up was my #1 activity.

Years later, I learned about the Buddhist concept of first dart, second dart. The first dart is a wound we might suffer, physical or emotional, from some event (like getting dumped, say, or breaking a rib). First dart pain is unavoidable. 

The second dart, which is 100% avoidable, is the repeated, extra wounding that we give ourselves, through shame, blame, and guilt.

At some point, after building a steady meditation practice, I began to notice how prevalent this hypercritical internal voice was. It was like I was tuned into the worst radio station in the world, telling me over and over what a loser I was, how badly I’d fucked things up. 

I decided, at long last, to change the channel.

First, I began to jot some of these internal roast sessions down. Whenever I noticed the voice kicking up, I’d whip out my phone and make a note, writing down what it was saying. 

The voice noticed this immediately, and responded: Look at you, making your little note. What a fucking moron. 

At least it made me laugh. Who was this? Surely some of it was harsh parenting that I’d onboarded. Maybe a few coaches and teachers, too. What it no longer felt like was “me.”

Second, I started to give myself credit for noticing this internal voice when it arose. Simply noticing is a victory worth celebrating.

Third, when I did notice the voice, I knew not to push it away, or argue with it. I simply brought compassion, and said to myself and the voice: It’s okay.

Earlier this week, I was skiing with my son and some friends. I followed a ridge up into a thicket of pines, then cut back down, through the trees, emerging fast through a small opening, noticing too late that there was a solitary pine blocking my way. I lunged to dodge it, but my shin caught the tree square in the trunk, with a loud crack.

After hitting the tree, I somersaulted, losing one ski, and coming to a stop down near the main run we’d been on. I tried to stand, and knew immediately something was wrong. I sat back down, feeling pretty sure that my ski trip was over, not yet halfway through.

My friend called ski patrol for me, and I sat with her, waiting. Like a sound coming from far away, almost like a distant engine starting up, I noticed the internal voice, barely a whisper, saying meekly: Why did you have to ski through those trees?

Almost simultaneously, I felt a confident response within me: You’re actually okay. This is okay. I laughed a little, with relief. “It’s going to be alright,” I said. My friend laughed, too, and said, “Jeez, I guess that meditation you do is working.”

Minutes later, I lay on my back in the toboggan. I was wrapped in a blue tarp with only my head peeking out, two ski patrollers guiding me down to the clinic. Heavy flakes were falling, landing on my cheeks, and I was looking up at the tops of pine and beech trees as we slid along, down steep sections, across cat-trails, down steep slopes again. 

It was my first time being the one on the stretcher, and I felt grateful, and in good hands. Kelly, the ski patroller who was guiding the sled directly in front of me, kept turning around to check on me. Each time I gave her a thumbs up. The only sound was a shushing, the sled kicking up snow. There was no internal voice. I was feeling really attuned to everything: to the pain, for sure, but also the passing stretches of forest, to the feeling of snow kicking up onto the tarp, wisps of clouds in the channel of sky overhead.

Down at the clinic, the x-ray showed I’d broken my tibia in two places. It was painful, but I was actually in good spirits, considering. It could’ve been my skull, or my spine that hit the tree. Besides, everyone helping me out was lovely, and I felt so well taken care of. This was manageable. I’d had an amazing few days of skiing, and, as always, situation is situation.

Now, sitting here with ice on my splinted leg, I can so easily imagine how bad this might have felt years ago, if I were not only laid up in the condo, but beating myself up on top of it. Second dart after second dart—so much unnecessary suffering on top of the pain.

I feel such a great relief, remembering how different I used to be. I never knew there was a choice. It’s in my tougher moments that I can feel how much kinder and gentler I treat myself these days. Rather than getting back in the ring and punching myself repeatedly, I can finally, for once and for all, just stay outside the ropes.

Thanks to

Rick Lewis

of

Honestly Human

for the prompt and ultra-helpful comments on a draft.

Thanks so much for reading.

If you enjoyed this post, please let me know:

1 — Leave a like. I’d be grateful if you’d consider tapping the “heart” 💙 at the top or bottom of this page.

2 — Get in touch. If somethings resonates or you want to share your thoughts, please leave a comment on this post. I’d love to hear from you.

3 — Spread the love. If you know someone who may enjoy reading this, please share it with them.

---

Thank you for reading This Very Moment. Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.