The Scared Knee Club: My ACL Chronicles

On Jan. 8, 2024, I started the year off with a blown knee. 

It was a moment of utter denial. A brief body scan bemused my mind into a haze, convincing me I had merely tweaked my knee. Pain eluded me, but waves of nausea surged as my knee wobbled. The worst part, my ski season was over. I had just bought new skis, Salomon QST Lumen 98’s—the perfect feminine, badass, ski with a stunning turquoise top sheet and playful ride. It was those gorgeous, sharp-edged, high-DIN sticks that jerked me across the icy snow tearing my ACL in swift violence—the skis, my reckless skiing that morning, and bad luck. I get shivers down my spine recounting the accident. 

I only threw up four times during the sled ride. It felt like an eternity, bouncing behind the ski patrol snowmobile as we traversed to the front of the mountain. I was handed off to a handsome snowboarder who pulled me the rest of the way down—humbling, to say the least.

At the patrol base, my ski boot was yanked off, and a plastic bag of snow was wrapped around my swollen knee while my mother graciously scheduled an MRI for two days later. I waited for my father and brother to finish their final run before we drove home. I was perched in the front seat, contorting my body into an awkward position to avoid jostling the slushy mash—said knee. Thankfully this catastrophe occurred over winter break at my local ski resort so, my parents were able to drive me to appointments. My dad offered condolences as a two-time ACL victim himself, while my mom gossiped with me as we sat together in hospital waiting rooms.

Ten days later an MRI confirmed a fully blown ACL and lateral meniscus in my right knee with surgery booked for Jan. 18. The clock was ticking, spring semester had already started on Jan. 12. My plan was clear: I needed to have my knee repaired as soon as possible, get the stitches out early, and catch a flight back to Boulder before I fell too far behind in classes. I chose to use the quadricep tendon autograft for my ACL reconstruction. 

The morning of surgery, perfectly hangry and dehydrated, I felt anxious. Not anxious to get cut open, my tendons harvested and my ligament stretched back into place, but anxious to be done. I wanted to move on and rebuild. I had a hard time grasping the innumerable months of recovery; I was told it would be a year till my knee was 100%.

After the boringly, sterile phase of preparation, it was time to administer my femoral nerve block. The anesthesiologist appeared with what looked like an ultrasound instrument. She fed me a smoothie of drugs and probed my thigh until she found where to inject the medication. This detail is important to remember because—spoiler—the nerve block didn’t work for me. 

However, the surgery went well. The most memorable part of that day was the wake-up room. I had no idea a communal post-anesthesia care unit was something that existed. I was surrounded by roughly a dozen patients waking up in pure agony. Nurses were running around administering painkillers and cranberry juice, it was all so overwhelming. Immediately after I opened my eyes nurses circled me to help mitigate my pain. With the failed nerve block I could feel everything. Nothing could feel worse than that moment. 

The painkiller drama meant experiencing the pseudobulbar affect―laughing tears of nonsense. At 20years-old I found myself grumbling about how my mom didn’t let me bring my stuffed animal to the hospital. In that post-surgery fog, it seemed like the most tragic thing ever. Luckily, my younger brother found the loopy performance of crying, laughing, and then laughing while crying, very amusing. I slept good that night. At 9 a.m. the next morning I was sitting in physical therapy learning how to change my bandages. I was ghostly pale and practically nonverbal. They make you start PT right away to activate your graft site and regain overall muscle control. It is the oddest feeling trying to summon strength from a muscle that had gone dormant. Post-op you’re likely unable to contract the quad muscle at all—it is like having a lifeless weight laughing at you, disconnected from your will of demands.

Four days post-op I was able to stop taking prescribed painkillers and switch to good ol’ ibuprofen. I was still required to take anti-blood clot and inflammation pills daily (if you ever have to go through ACL reconstruction surgery, you should know magnesium is your best friend). 

I was required to wear a gigantic knee brace for six weeks. For three weeks, I was to keep the brace on at all times, locked at 100 degrees, and non-weight bearing with crutches. At four weeks, I could allow the brace to bend 90 degrees and take it off to sleep, still weight bearing with crutches. At five weeks, I could ditch the crutches, but still had to wear the brace when walking while working towards 100% flexibility. At six weeks, I got to banish the brace and roam freely. 

Then, I was allowed to start running. Those who personally know me know running is my lifeline. Running is my solitude and true solace. On my first jog back—yes, I felt like an alien in my own body—but oh boy, was it the most euphoric and peaceful I had felt since the injury.

Fast forwarding past laser treatment, awkward PT exercises, lifting heavy weights, breaking through scar tissue for full flexibility, learning how to jump again, pushing through nagging aches, and slow runs on flat surfaces—brings us to October. 

As I write this essay, I’m almost 10 months post-op and my physical therapist and I are preparing for ski season. I’m so excited, but I know I still have a lot of work to do. Tearing my ACL was never a real concern of mine, but now I can’t imagine not hyper-fixating on my knee, even when I’m just walking around. I know this is a habit I’ll unlearn in time, as I rebuild my confidence and trust in my new ACL. 

I’ve learned so much. I was forced to confront immense mental challenges that taught me valuable lessons about resilience, adaptability, and the importance of setting realistic goals during a period when my active lifestyle was abruptly taken away. I gained a newfound gratitude for my body, which worked hard to heal and has allowed me to adventure and pursue great achievements in the outdoors. The mountains will always call, and now, I’m learning to answer with a deeper respect for the body that carries me there.

I want to end by saying my experience is not unique. So many young adult athletes tear their ACL year after year— an epidemic that feels like it’s been around for forever. Everybody has or knows someone who has torn their knee. A friend once reminded me to trust the process, even when progress feels agonizingly slow. If I could share one piece of advice, it would be this: healing is not linear (cliche, I know). Recovery isn’t just about physical healing—it’s a test of your mental fortitude. Recovery demands patience and self-compassion. You’re not alone; embrace the unpredictability and uncomfortableness to discover strength in unexpected places.

• ACL
• injury
• recovery