I first tore my ACL in November 2023 during Cheer training. In January I had surgery, opting for a hamstring graft repair. Both my hamstrings were weak, and rehab was grueling, slow, and mentally exhausting. I spent 8 months grinding through rehab, relearning how to walk and trust my body, and dreaming of the day I could get back to the sport that had defined me for my entire life: competitive cheerleading.
Then, in September 2024, it happened again. My knee gave out, and this time, everyone told me it was fine, just a strain, maybe I’d pulled something. I tried to brush it off. I thought I’d been careful, thought I could push through.
It wasn’t fine. It was a full ACL rupture. Hamstring graft x2, both hamstrings still weak, and once again, the same injury that stole months of my life. The physical pain was intense, but the mental battle; processing the shock, the despair, and the feeling of being trapped in a cycle of loss, was worse.
Cheerleading was my language, my outlet, and my community. It shaped who I am, taught me discipline, teamwork, and courage, and gave me a sense of purpose that I could wear like a badge. To have it taken away, not once but twice, felt like losing a piece of myself.
Rehab is grueling the first time. I can’t describe the pain of the first couple of weeks. It’s mental warfare: the frustration of limitations, the slow progress, the endless repetitions. But going through it again? It’s an entirely different kind of challenge. You carry the memory of the first recovery, so every step, every exercise, every twinge becomes a reminder of how fragile things are, and how much is at stake.
Yet, amid the pain and disappointment, I’ve learned some lessons that no trophy or medal could teach me:
1. Identity is more than one role.
For so long, I equated my worth with my performance on the mat. Losing that ability forced me to confront a painful truth: I am more than my sport. My kindness, my determination, my creativity, they are all parts of who I am, and they can’t be stripped away by injury.
2. Strength is both physical and mental.
Yes, rehab rebuilds muscles and ligaments, but it also builds patience, resilience, and grit. I’ve learned to celebrate small victories: bending my knee without pain, climbing stairs without hesitation, taking one more cautious tumble into a tumble track.
3. Resilience is about showing up anyway.
There were days I wanted to quit, to give in to bitterness or self-pity. But resilience isn’t about never feeling broken; it’s about choosing to keep moving, even when the road ahead is steep and uncertain.
4. Vulnerability is a strength.
Talking about my fears, frustrations, and doubts hasn’t made me weaker; it’s made me human. It’s reminded me that asking for support and leaning on my community is not just ok. It’s essential.
This journey hasn’t been easy, and some days it still feels unbearable. But I’m beginning to see that the pain, the setbacks, and the lost moments are shaping a new kind of person. One who can endure, adapt, and find purpose beyond a single identity.

































































