Go On Ahead Without Me

I keep thinking of those old cowboy or army movies where someone who is injured or tired turns to the group and says,
“Go on ahead without me, boys. Don’t let me hold you back.”

It’s an acknowledgment that the pace has changed, and that staying behind isn’t quitting… it’s necessary.

That line has been echoing in my head lately.

Not because I want to stop moving forward, but because my body has made it clear that I can’t keep the same pace I once did. My knees have slowed me down in ways I didn’t plan or choose. Walking is harder. Pivoting brings sharp pain. Stairs require strategy. Sleep doesn’t come easily. I guess it is a result of a lifetime of moving, dancing, bending, running and living.

There’s grief in realizing I can’t do the things I’m used to doing — long walks, spontaneous movement, even simple errands without thinking through every step. There’s frustration in needing to sit when every instinct tells me to push through. And there’s humility in hearing my body say, firmly, now is the time to slow down. And I’ve never been very good at that.

Like many of us, I’ve tied a lot of my identity to motion — doing, creating, showing up, keeping pace. Rest has often felt like falling behind. But this season is asking something different of me. It’s asking me to step out of stride, not in defeat, but in trusting my body.

As I’ve been sitting with this, I keep thinking about Caitlin’s Star. When I wrote that story, I was writing about a child learning to live in a world that had changed. A world where things didn’t feel the same, and certainty was gone. What I didn’t realize then was how universal that lesson would be.

Change asks us to slow down.
To sit with uncertainty.
To trust that love, meaning, and light don’t disappear even when life looks different than we expected.

Recently, I was told what comes next: total knee replacement surgery on February 4th. It’s a quad-sparing procedure, which means the quadriceps muscle is preserved and recovery may be quicker although it’s still major surgery. It’s not the path I would have chosen, but it is a path forward.

I’m learning that sometimes the bravest thing we can do is acknowledge when the pace has changed and give ourselves permission to rest, regroup, and heal. Not because we’re weak. But because we’re listening.