The injury itself seemed small at first. A sharp pain in my wrist, a moment of carelessness, and suddenly my right hand—my dominant one as I am a leftie but rely on my right hand just as much. At first, I treated it as an inconvenience but trying to get dressed and even carry things that I just took for granted and now I must think.
But as the hours turned into days, I began to notice just how much of my life depended on those two hands I had always taken for granted.
Simple routines became quiet battles. Brushing my teeth required awkward adjustments. Buttoning a shirt turned into a test of patience. Typing—once effortless—became slow and frustrating, each word a reminder of what I had lost, even if only temporarily. I found myself reaching instinctively with my injured hand, only to be met with pain or limitation. It was humbling.
What surprised me most wasn’t just the difficulty of doing things—it was the emotional weight of it. There’s a certain independence we assume we have, a belief that our bodies will cooperate with us without question. When that changes, even slightly, it shakes something deeper. I felt frustration, yes—but also a strange sense of grief for the ease I once had.
And then, gradually, something shifted.
I began to notice my other hand—the one still fully capable. My left hand, once just the “helper,” stepped forward in quiet resilience. It learned quickly. It adapted. It tried. And in doing so, it reminded me that my body is not fragile in the way I had assumed—it is resourceful.
I also began to appreciate the small, invisible miracles of movement. The way fingers coordinate without thought. The way a wrist turns, effortlessly aligning the hand to meet the world. The way both hands work together—opening jars, tying laces, holding, carrying, creating. These are not grand gestures, but they are foundational ones. They are life, in motion.
There was also a deeper realisation: our hands are not just functional—they are relational. I missed the ease of reaching out, of holding something firmly, of expressing myself through gesture without hesitation. Even the act of resting my hand on something—or someone—felt suddenly significant.
Injury slowed me down, but it also woke me up. I am grateful for Tissue Salts that have come to my aid alongside the Zen Sports roll on with the 20mg of Arnica added in plus Rest & Quiet Stress formula that has melted away the shock, hurt and impatience trying to get my hand working like it did before I took the fall on my wrist.
I now see my hands not as background tools, but as constant companions in everything I do. They are present in my work, my routines, my connections, my creativity. They are how I shape my environment and, in many ways, how I experience it.
This experience hasn’t just been about limitation—it has been about awareness. A quiet, persistent reminder that what feels ordinary is often extraordinary. And when my wrist heals fully—and it will—I know I won’t return to that unconscious ease in quite the same way. I’ll carry this awareness with me. A kind of gratitude.
Because now I understand: our hands don’t just help us live. They are how we live.
ALWAYS READ THE LABEL AND FOLLOW THE DIRECTIONS FOR USE