The Game Called "Fear of Injury"
Starter's guide included
An exercise before we begin: take in one full breath and exhale.
Remarkable, isn’t it?
Without a view into all the complex processes unfolding within you, you can breathe into space you cannot see, and suddenly, perspective outward becomes mysteriously more available. Temporary though the relief may be, ‘temporary’ is the very fact of life. So breathe in for just a moment. Watch the moments collect. Before you know it, you’ll see a moment bloom promise in all its petaled pageantry. That moment isn’t the one that will matter, though. It’s all the others where you spent time rehearsing a simple truth: you’re not helpless. You have what you need. You have your breath and this moment. Let’s begin again.
I never had to endure breaking a bone. I played soccer for most of my life and experienced fractures, tears, and sprains, but managed to avoid this type of injury in and outside of competitive sports.
Instead, I experienced a full tear of my ACL and MCL — a moment forever marked by a sequence of planting my foot and collapsing into the sound of a pop and the unsettling feeling that my knee had shifted unnaturally out of place.
It wasn’t the pain that etched the moment into memory; rather, it was the immediate recognition that my life just got a bit more complicated. Surgery, difficulty commuting to my job, limited ability to exercise (a regulatory practice for me), the challenge of rehab, the cost of all of this against my entry-level salary — all of it like salt in a deeper wound.
Full recovery took about a year. In that time, friends and family softened my worries with their love and care. What never fully healed, however, was my belief that I could return to the frequency and intensity of play I once knew.
I played for three more years—minimally, during COVID—and then, slowly, fear of re-injury grew in proportion to life’s mounting demands and dependencies. By 2023, I stopped playing soccer competitively. Just like that, a 30-year-long commitment came to an end.
If you’ve ever dedicated a major part of your life to something, you know the sinking feeling of letting it go. You poured in time, effort, care—and now it’s behind you. Sure, that can be thrilling or relieving. But it can also be painfully destabilizing.
We often call these moments “growing pains.” They're not just physical; they're part of our deepest developmental processes. Just as our bodies ache when they change, so do our identities when they’re asked to evolve. We think we know ourselves—until we’re called into a new role, relationship, or circumstance that exposes a blind spot.
Even when we understand that growth demands resistance, challenge, and vulnerability, we still try to avoid overexposure, overexertion, or overcommitting to suffering—and rightly so.
Because here’s the thing: injuries, whether physical or emotional, are inevitable. But the real threat isn’t that they happen. The real threat is the uncertainty—that they might break us, or break a part of us we hold dear, permanently. That we might not recover.
That invisible weight—what if I don’t come back from this?—can get so heavy it pins us down. It leaves us gasping for air, unable to engage in the very things (or people, as we’ll explore) that once brought us joy.
Hypothetical questions burn little holes into our view of things:
What will be the cost of this change I’m undergoing?
Will I heal from these wounds?
Why do I feel like a stranger in my own body?
Take another breath.
Consider your bones…
Assuming you’re not cremated, your bones will be what’s left. And based on your skeleton alone, not much can be said about the person you were.
Yet we often speak of our bones as if they house our deepest truths.
To know something in your bones suggests an intuition too strong to ignore.
To have a bone to pick with someone means you want to get to the heart of a matter.
To dig up bones implies that something from the past refuses to rest.
To have skeletons in the closet points to secrets and shame that won’t let go.
Linguistically, bones are metaphors for the structures that shape us. Figuratively speaking, to have a skeleton implies at least five things:
We possess a core framework or foundation.
We are shaped by secrets and hidden truths.
We have built-in resilience and support.
We are guided by something basic but essential.
We leave something behind, even when everything else falls away.
Are these truths self-evident, even without the metaphor? Of course. But now think again—what happens when bones break?
When I spoke of leaving behind something I loved out of fear of re-injury, yes, I was talking about a hobby. Choosing not to play soccer again was difficult, but ultimately safe—I could afford to let that go. But not everything in life is so easy to shelve.
What happens when the stakes are higher, when the fear of injury—or reinjury—shows up in our relationships? When intimacy, trust, or closeness carry the same looming sense of risk?
Unlike physical injuries, emotional and psychological injuries don’t automatically trigger healing. The body knows what to do. The psyche needs guidance. Maybe you once confided in someone who betrayed you. Or maybe you gave love freely, only to have it weaponized. That kind of injury doesn’t just hurt—it teaches your nervous system to flinch.
Like a broken bone, when any one of those five foundations cracks, the rest of our lives will adjust, and what’s tricky is we’re not always aware of the adjustments.
Let’s revisit that list, but this time from a different angle:
When we lack a core foundation, we experience existential crises, depersonalization, identity diffusion, or what Viktor Frankl called the existential vacuum.
When we’re shaped by secrets, we form false selves (Winnicott), project onto others, sabotage ourselves, or get caught in addiction and compulsive behaviors.
Without support systems, we struggle with emotional regulation, insecure attachment, learned helplessness, hyper-independence, or intimacy issues.
When basic needs go unmet, Maslow’s hierarchy offers a framework: unmet physiological needs lead to illness; unmet safety needs to trauma; unmet belonging needs to depression; unmet esteem needs to perfectionism or validation-seeking; and unmet self-actualization needs to stagnation.
When we ignore the consequences of our actions, we create cycles of generational harm—violating our own integrity and the sanctity of life.
My point is: there’s no hard line between the physiological and the psychological.
The practices we keep become the thoughts we keep, which become the actions we take, which shape the truths we live by. Likewise, how we feel often has more to do with basic actions we aren’t taking.
There must be an ongoing dialogue between the body and the mind, between physical health and perceived wellness. And you already know this.
You already know that fear of injury can become a posture—a way of living.
Sometimes, it starts with small acts of avoidance. Maybe instead of not showing up to the soccer field, you stop fighting to be understood. Maybe instead of having a hard conversation, you bury yourself in busyness.
In a way, I believe Fear of Injury is its own kind of game.
The rules vary, person to person. But the core mechanic is the same: self-protection, often at the expense of growth or connection, but it doesn’t have to be this way.
Regardless of your version, we all play this game.
The only difference is whether you know you’re playing. When we knowingly play, self-protection still comes at a cost, but it becomes growth-oriented and fosters greater connection.
Spotting the difference can be tricky, so I’ve created a little starter’s guide.
And if it helps—remember this: because we all play this game, we’re all allowed to have a bit of fun with it. There’s no shame in defending what needs protecting. Sometimes, we simply forget how to play the game. Looking for a sign you’ve left the game? Start by noticing if your reactions to certain activating circumstances are consistently over or under what the circumstance requires.
Remember your breath. Remember that you can impact spaces and people in ways you cannot see.
Now… let’s play.
🔶 Start:
Do you know you are playing the game?
❌ No
(You are unaware you're avoiding growth due to fear.)
⬇️
Are you avoiding physical activity that used to bring you joy or health?
→ Yes → Are you telling yourself it’s “just being careful” or “smart” while not exploring safe ways to re-engage?
→ Yes → You may be protecting your fear, not your body. Explore gentle re-entry into movement.
→ No → What would it take to safely try again?
⬇️
Are you avoiding mental or emotional practices (like journaling, therapy, hard conversations)?
→ Yes → Is it because you fear it will bring up discomfort you can't handle?
→ Yes → Avoidance feeds the fear. Facing the discomfort is the first step toward power.
→ No → What stops you, then—time, trust, or something else?
⬇️
Are you blaming your body, circumstances, or past for your current state?
→ Yes → Blame keeps the game hidden. Ownership reveals the next move.
→ No → Then what’s keeping you stuck? Dig deeper.
✅ Yes
(You recognize you’re playing the game.)
⬇️
What healthy physical behaviors are you practicing despite fear?
→ Movement, rehab, stretching, rest, balance, etc.
→ What have these taught you about your body’s resilience?
→ Insight: “I’m stronger than I thought.”
→ Insight: “Pain doesn’t always mean damage.”
⬇️
What thought habits have you challenged or changed?
→ Reframing failure, noticing catastrophizing, using self-compassion, etc.
→ How do you respond to fear when it arises now?
→ “I listen but don’t obey.”
→ “I breathe, assess, and decide from clarity.”
⬇️
What are you learning about yourself by playing consciously?
→ I can trust my process.
→ Courage isn't loud—sometimes it's just not quitting.
→ I still hesitate, but I move anyway.
⬇️
What’s your next edge of growth in this game?
→ Where am I still holding back?
→ Who can support me through that next step?
→ How will I know I’m not falling into old patterns?