My Embarrassing Injury in Kyoto

On Aging, Humility, and a Humiliating Fall

I read the most beautiful essay on aging this past week in The Washington Post. It was written by one of my favorite writers, Anne Lamott, and in her signature style, she captured aspects of our human existence in a way that felt unexpectedly familiar. I kept finding myself thinking, I know what you mean, which is somewhat surprising because our lives seem so different on the surface.

In different moments, her essay made me laugh, reflect, wonder, and empathize. I forwarded the link to my family and friends before even getting halfway through it. And after reading it twice, I remembered that she has a new book coming out this month on love. I went straight to the Penguin Random House website to preorder it.

I have a confession though: I felt a touch of glibness inside while reading her essay. Anne’s turning 70 this year, I thought. Of course she and her friend feel hip pain while on a hike. I’m 39 years young, 30 years her junior. Maybe I’ll feel what she’s describing in a few decades.

You can probably guess what comes next, especially if—like me—you think that God has the most ridiculous sense of humor.

The very next morning, as I walked out of my Kyoto hotel in the rain, I didn’t see the the stair from the hotel entrance to the sidewalk. I missed the step, my ankle turned sideways, and I tumbled to the ground. I tried to get up but the pain shot through my ankle and up my leg. I just needed a few minutes.

I laid there in the rain, waiting for the pain to subside, hoping no one would see me but also hoping someone would happen by and help me. I felt like the Sikh Steve Urkel: I’d fallen and I couldn’t get up.

The pain lessened after a few minutes, and I used my umbrella to help push myself up to stand. The pain wasn’t excruciating, but my ankle hurt, and I couldn’t put much weight on it. I limped to the hotel lobby and plopped myself on a bench there. That’s when I first saw God’s joke on me. Isn’t this exactly what Anne had talked about in her essay? Wasn’t I, just yesterday, feeling invincible, as if my body was somehow exempt from the pains of aging?

Talk about a big, fat slice of humble pie. What could be more humbling—and humiliating—then injuring myself while walking out of my hotel?!

My ankle ballooned over the next hour, and it was tender on both sides. I hadn’t hurt it so badly in almost 15 years. But the pain was bearable, even when I walked on it, and I was glad that it didn’t affect our daily sightseeing itinerary. We kept walking from place to place, and I felt its soreness with every stride. In other moments in my life, I would have described it as a nagging pain, but for some reason, I experienced it so differently this time. Perhaps part of it had to do with where we were, steeped in Japan, visiting centuries-old Shinto and Buddhist temples.

The slight pain that came with each step reminded me of what I know to be true but typically take for granted: Our bodies are not our own. They’re temporary. We only get to be with them for so long.

Many feel uncomfortable facing their own mortality. I do sometimes, too. I think that’s part of being human. Sometimes, when I think about my own death, I find myself looking for distractions, anything that will help me avoid recognizing that this life will one day end.

Yet for some reason, my experience was different this time around. This time, it felt so easy to accept that my body would break down, just like Anne’s body, and just like your body, too. There’s something comforting about recognizing that this is a shared experience; that though we might face it alone, mortality itself isn’t isolating; that perhaps death is not separate from our lives, but in fact, a part of life itself.

It's a strange way to be reminded of these ideas. A small fall on the sidewalk in Japan. A small injury that is nearly healed already and will be entirely healed soon. A small moment that reminded me of a big idea that I learned from Guru Nanak Sahib: Pain is medicine.

What a profound teaching, especially in moments of pain when we need that perspective most. I saw the wisdom in it almost immediately, while sitting in the hotel lobby, nursing my ankle. My fall brought me down to earth, reminding my ego that I’m not immune to injury or death. I’m not exceptional. And whether I accept it or not, I’m subject to aging, just like everyone else.

Embracing this realization wasn’t easy: It took an unexpected fall and a fair amount of physical pain for me to even get there.  But I’m so glad for the experience. I’m sharing this story and reflection with you here in the hope that you might feel the freedom that comes in embracing the truth of our mortality, just as I have felt in my own small way this week.