They told me I’d feel nervous.

But honestly? I felt relieved.

After months of hobbling around the house, pretending I wasn’t wincing every time I stood up, and quietly skipping outings because the thought of walking across a parking lot made me sweat—this moment? Sitting in a hospital gown, hair tucked under a cap, IV in my arm? It felt like progress.

I smiled for this picture because I needed proof—for myself—that I wasn’t scared. I wanted to remember that I chose this. That this wasn’t about giving up. It was about giving myself a chance to move freely again. To dance at my niece’s wedding. To walk through the grocery store without planning my route around the benches.

But just before they wheeled me in, something unexpected happened.

One of the nurses, a kind woman who had been preparing me for surgery, looked at me with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Hey, I just wanted to remind you that it’s completely normal to feel nervous,” she said gently. “I know you’re feeling brave right now, but after the surgery, it’ll take time to heal. And there might be a few unexpected bumps along the way.”

I nodded, trying to brush off the sudden flicker of doubt that crept into my mind. I had been preparing myself for this moment for months. I had read everything I could about hip replacements, gone to physical therapy, and talked to friends and family who had been through similar surgeries. I was ready. At least, that’s what I kept telling myself.

The nurse, noticing my silence, gave me a small, reassuring pat on the hand. “You’re going to be just fine,” she added. “But just remember, it’s okay to take it one step at a time. Don’t rush your recovery.”

And with that, she wheeled me down the hallway toward the operating room.

As they transferred me onto the surgical table, the sterile lights above me made my head spin for a moment, but I quickly refocused. I took in a deep breath and told myself, this was it. The pain, the struggle, the uncertainty of the past year—it would all be worth it. The doctors assured me this procedure would give me back the freedom I had lost.

After the anesthesia kicked in, everything went black.

When I woke up, the first thing I felt was the dull ache in my hip. I had been prepared for that, of course. What I hadn’t prepared for, however, was the overwhelming exhaustion. It felt like the weight of the world was on my chest, and I could barely keep my eyes open. The nurse on duty noticed immediately.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, her voice soft but comforting.

“Tired,” I whispered, blinking against the fog in my mind. “And… my hip hurts. But it’s not as bad as before.”

She smiled and adjusted the blankets around me. “That’s a good sign. You’re doing great. The pain is normal, and we’ll keep it under control with medication. Just focus on resting.”

And rest I did. For the next several days, I slept in and out of consciousness, the hours blending together as I allowed my body to heal. But as the days went by, something strange began to happen. The pain, though manageable, lingered longer than I expected. My doctor had told me that after a few days, I’d start to feel better. But that wasn’t the case for me.

I tried to move, just to sit up in bed, and a jolt of pain shot through me. It wasn’t the kind of pain I had expected—the kind that would fade as I recovered. This felt… different. The pain was sharp, almost like something wasn’t right. I tried not to panic, but it was hard not to.

I pressed the button to call the nurse.

When she came in, I explained what I was feeling, and she nodded thoughtfully. “Let’s take a look at your incision,” she suggested, gently lifting the hospital gown to examine the area around my new hip.

After a moment of silence, she looked up at me, her face unreadable. “We need to notify the doctor. I think you might be having an infection.”

An infection? My stomach churned. I had heard about the risks of infection with surgery, but I had never expected it would happen to me. The thought of something going wrong—of all the time, money, and effort spent on this—was terrifying.

“Don’t worry,” she continued, seeing the panic in my eyes. “It’s not uncommon. We’ll get you on antibiotics right away. But it will mean a longer recovery time. It’s just a setback, not the end of the road.”

The doctor confirmed the nurse’s suspicion. The infection, though caught early, meant I couldn’t go home just yet. Instead of heading back to my house after just a few days, I would have to remain in the hospital for several more days while they administered the medication.

I was disappointed, to say the least. I had been so eager to get home, to get back to my life, to see my family. But now, the path I had envisioned was longer, winding, and more uncertain.

The next few days were a blur of medications, IV drips, and monitoring. The infection slowly started to subside, but I still felt weaker than I anticipated. My energy was low, and the pain was always just under the surface. It was frustrating—every time I thought I could move forward, it felt like I was being held back.

And then, just when I thought I was at my lowest, something unexpected happened.

One evening, as I was sitting in my hospital room, staring out the window at the sunset, I heard a knock at the door. It was my friend Carol, someone I hadn’t seen in months because I’d been too embarrassed about my condition to reach out.

She stood in the doorway, a basket of fruit and snacks in her hand, and her eyes filled with concern. “I heard you were in here,” she said softly, stepping inside. “How are you doing?”

I forced a smile, still too exhausted to fully engage. “I’ve been better.”

Carol set the basket down on the table next to my bed. “You’re stronger than this, you know,” she said, sitting down next to me. “I’ve been through hard things too. And you’ll get through this.”

She went on to tell me about her own challenges—her long battle with chronic pain, the times when she thought she couldn’t go on. But she did. She made it through, not because things got easier, but because she kept going.

Her words were simple, but they had a profound effect on me. The truth was, I hadn’t been taking my own advice. I had been so focused on the things that went wrong—on the infection, on the setbacks—that I had forgotten the bigger picture. Yes, I was facing a tough road, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t move forward.

The next day, the doctors finally cleared me to go home. It wasn’t the ideal situation—my recovery would be slower, and I would have to take extra care with my movement. But I was going home. I was going to start moving again.

As I left the hospital, I realized that this experience, as difficult as it had been, had taught me something valuable. Life doesn’t always go according to plan. Sometimes, you’ll hit bumps in the road. But it’s not about how many times you fall—it’s about how many times you get back up.

I’ve learned to celebrate the small victories. I’m not fully recovered yet, but I’m well on my way. And every day that I make progress, no matter how small, I remind myself that setbacks don’t define me. It’s the journey—and the courage to keep going—that matters most.

If you’re facing your own struggles, remember: setbacks don’t last forever. Keep pushing forward, and you’ll eventually get where you need to be.

Please share this if you know someone who could use a little encouragement.