Living in a body that won’t cooperate is like slow-onset torture. For years, my hips haven’t just hurt—they’ve held me back. At first, just a little. Gradually, over the years, more and more. Simple things—bending, walking, standing, even trying to sleep—have been battles I’ve fought quietly (and sometimes not so quietly) every day. I scheduled my hip replacement months ago, ready to finally feel like myself again. I was counting down the days.

And then a respiratory virus derailed it all. Just like that, the surgery is postponed. The frustration is almost unbearable. I’ve waited long enough. I’ve done everything to prepare. And now, I’m stuck in this familiar and unwelcome cage, just waiting.

I used to move my whole household on my own, keep up with three young children, and stay active. Right now, I’m diminished to a couch potato who needs a mobility scooter just to do in-store shopping.

People forget what you’re capable of when you’ve been limited for so long. Friends, family—even strangers—start treating you like less. After a while, people just stop offering help altogether, assuming you can’t do it. And over time, even you start to believe it. You shrink to fit the expectations of your body, instead of your mind.

But here’s the truth I hold onto: I will get my life back. The moment I finally have a working hip, it won’t just be about walking without pain—it will be about reclaiming my agency. I’ll be able to move freely, to decide, to act, to do what I want without limitations. I’ll be able to show the world—and remind myself—exactly who I am and what I’m capable of.

This isn’t just about mobility. It’s about freedom, about my sense of self, about waking up in a body that finally listens to me instead of holding me hostage. For so long, I’ve felt trapped, small, almost invisible in my own life. But I’m done shrinking. The world isn’t going to wait for me to be ready—I’m going to take my place in it, fully, fiercely, unapologetically.

For anyone else trapped in a body—or in circumstances—that make them feel small: hold on. Don’t give up. Setbacks hurt, but they aren’t the end. The other side is waiting, and it will feel like breathing fresh air for the first time in years. When I get there, I won’t just be walking—I’ll be claiming every step as my own, fully capable, fully alive, finally me.