The accident I didn’t see coming
Last Friday, my company hosted a bonding event at a go-kart track. I had never done go-kart racing before. My intention was simple: go slow, enjoy the ride, and not push for speed. But life doesn’t always follow our plans.
On my second round, I misjudged a turn. The kart slammed straight into the wall. My chest crashed hard into the steering wheel. My helmet flew back. My body jerked forward then backward. In seconds, I felt sharp pain in my left shoulder, chest, and neck.
I walked away from the track, but the pain didn’t leave me. The next morning, it got worse. My neck swelled up. Turning my head left or right was almost impossible. Soon the pain spread across my shoulder and back. Breathing deeply hurt. Coughing from a cold I had caught earlier became unbearable.
A doctor confirmed what my body was already telling me: I needed to stop training for at least two weeks.
For someone preparing for an Ironman race in eight weeks, that was crushing news.
Sitting with disappointment
When the doctor said “no training,” I felt like the ground fell beneath me. Training has always been my daily rhythm, my anchor. Without it, I felt lost, restless, and honestly, sad.
I called my coach to update him on the situation. His words were kind but firm:
“Your health comes first. There are many races in the future. Right now, we focus on healing.”
Part of me understood completely. Another part of me wanted to scream. I had been looking forward to Phu Quoc for months. I had pushed myself through long sessions, rainy swims, and days when fatigue screamed louder than motivation. Now, because of one accident, everything felt uncertain.
Have you ever had a goal so close, only to feel it slip through your fingers? That’s what this moment felt like.
Why rest feels harder than training
Most athletes know how to push through pain. We thrive on discipline, routine, and the thrill of improvement. What we’re not good at is stopping.
Resting feels like failure. It feels lazy, unproductive, and uncomfortable. But injuries remind us of something essential: rest is not weakness, it is medicine.
When I tried to move my arm the day after the crash, pain shot through my chest. Swimming was out of the question. Running would only worsen the strain. Even cycling felt impossible. Every time I coughed, the pain reminded me of my limits.
This was my body screaming: stop, let me heal.
The mental side of recovery
Physical pain is one thing. The mental game is another. I found myself stuck between frustration and fear.
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Frustration, because I had worked so hard and didn’t want to lose progress.
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Fear, because I worried: What if I don’t heal in time? What if this pain lingers? What if I can’t race at all?
These thoughts weighed heavier than the injury itself. But I knew if I let them control me, I would only add stress to my body, slowing down healing.
So I shifted focus. Instead of asking “Why now?”, I asked, “What can I learn from this?”
Lessons I’m holding onto
1. Health comes first, always
No race, no medal, no finish line is worth risking long-term health. My coach’s words were a wake-up call: races come and go, but I only get one body.
2. Rest is part of the process
It’s not wasted time. Recovery is training, just in a different form. When I think back, some of my strongest performances happened after I gave my body space to rest.
3. Setbacks don’t erase progress
One crash doesn’t cancel months of discipline. Every early morning swim, every sweaty run, every cycle lap still counts. It all lives in my body’s memory, ready to return when I’m healed.
4. Gratitude in tough times
I’m grateful for the doctor who helped, for the coach who reminded me of perspective, and for my own body that, despite the pain, is working hard to repair itself.
5. There is always another chance
Missing one race doesn’t mean the journey ends. There will be more start lines. What matters is being strong enough to show up for them.
Remembering past challenges
This isn’t my first time facing obstacles before a race. In a previous event, I ran while being sick, coughing and sneezing all the way with a running nose. It was one of the hardest races I’ve ever done. But I crossed the finish line.
That memory reminds me: I’ve overcome before, and I can do it again.
This time, the lesson is different. Instead of pushing through sickness, it’s about respecting my body’s limits. Instead of proving toughness, it’s about practicing patience.
Hope in the waiting
Right now, I’m still coughing. Breathing deeply hurts. Moving my left arm feels heavy. But I’m hopeful. Each day is a small step forward. Swelling will go down. Muscles will mend. My cold will fade.
I don’t know yet if I’ll make it to Phu Quoc this year. But I do know that the journey doesn’t stop here. Whether it’s this race or the next, I’ll come back stronger.
And maybe, just maybe, this accident isn’t just a setback. Maybe it’s a pause I needed to remind myself that resilience isn’t just about pushing hard, it’s also about knowing when to stop, heal, and trust the process.