Recovery Isn’t Linear: What My Foot Injury Taught Me About Slowing Down

Hi, I’m Emily Grannemann—a CCI-certified eating disorder recovery coach, certified peer specialist, and someone who’s walked through the darkest corners of an eating disorder, alcoholism, and severe depression. In my work, I often talk about how recovery isn’t a straight path, but a winding, ever-evolving journey. This blog is a deeply personal reflection on what that really looks like—not just in theory, but in practice. A recent injury forced me to slow down in ways I didn’t expect, and what unfolded reminded me just how quickly old patterns can resurface when our coping tools are taken away. Whether you’re early in recovery or years down the road, I hope this story helps you feel less alone in the messiness of healing.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: recovery is not a straight line. It doesn’t come with guarantees, a clear endpoint, or a consistent upward trajectory. And recently, I was reminded of this truth the hard way—by fracturing my foot and being forced to sit still. It tested my recovery in ways I hadn’t yet confronted.

Walking had become one of my main coping skills post-recovery. It helped me regulate my anxiety, gave structure to my day, and became a way to process emotions without resorting to old behaviors. But when my foot injury took that away, the absence of movement created a ripple effect I didn’t expect. Suddenly, the tool I relied on to manage my anxiety and ground myself was no longer available—and I had to face what bubbled up in the absence of movement.

At first, it was just restlessness. A feeling of not knowing what to do with the new down time and needing to stay busy. I looked for new hobbies, found myself excessively scrolling on my phone, and even drinking more caffeinated coffee.  Just to keep from sitting alone with myself and making sure I was doing SOMETHING.  

Then it was heightened anxiety. My anxiety exacerbated the OCD, leading to excessive checking and compulsive behaviors. I would feel the anxiety physically, whether my stomach becoming nauseous or a tightness all over my body. It was distressing, but I was managing it well enough.

And soon, I noticed the eating disorder voice getting louder again. It started as seemingly harmless restriction, missing a snack here and there because I was naturally less hungry from exercising less. Eventually it progressed to missing complete meals.

It’s humbling—and honestly a bit terrifying—how quickly that part of me surfaces when something destabilizes my routine. I’ve learned that even in recovery, the eating disorder doesn’t just disappear. It lies dormant, waiting for the right storm to try and take back control.

When I couldn’t walk, I couldn’t escape from the relentless anxiety. And that brought up more than just restlessness—it unearthed some very old wounds. I’ve always had a drive to stay busy, to be in motion, to accomplish. Stillness has never come easily to me. Underneath the constant doing is a fear of being alone—with my thoughts, with my feelings, with myself. That fear goes all the way back to childhood, when downtime often felt like loneliness, not rest.

Losing walking reminded me just how much I rely on movement to self-soothe—but it also gave me an unexpected gift: a chance to explore my relationship with stillness. For once, I had to ask myself: Can I trust my body to rest? Can I be okay with not being productive? Can I be present, even when it’s uncomfortable?

The answer hasn’t always been yes. There were days I felt on the edge. Days when eating felt harder. Days when I was anxious, ungrounded, and desperate to escape my own skin. But there were also moments of growth—when I realized that slowing down doesn’t mean I’m failing. Rest is not the enemy. My body can handle it. My recovery can handle it. I can handle it.

There’s no glamour in setbacks, but there is opportunity. When you’ve spent years relying on a disorder to cope, even subtle disruptions—like a broken foot—can shake the foundation you’ve worked so hard to build. But what I’ve learned is this: you don’t have to go back to square one. A setback doesn’t erase your progress. It just asks you to use the tools you’ve collected along the way.

For me, some tools I used to navigate the setback included:

·      Leaning on my support system—talking to friends, my sponsor, my therapist, and others in my network by texting even just to share what I was feeling

·      Being honest about what I was going through instead of pretending I had it all under control

·      Practicing opposite action—eating even when I didn’t want to or when my anxiety told me not to

·      Journaling to process my thoughts and emotions

·      Incorporating breathing exercises to help soothe my body and regulate my nervous system

·     I even tried a few meditation exercises focused on coping with the intense emotions—I was desperate to feel better and willing to try new tools

Setbacks in recovery are often less about the behaviors themselves and more about the urge to give in to them. What matters most is what you do with those urges. Can you sit in the discomfort long enough to let it pass? Can you ride the wave, knowing that it will crest and fall if you keep choosing the pro-recovery behavior?

That’s the secret no one tells you: it’s not about being perfect. For the longest time I thought I had to complete my meal plan 100% to be in recovery. But recovery is rarely that clear cut. It’s about showing up again and again for yourself—even when it’s hard, even when it’s inconvenient, even when it’s boring or painful or deeply uncomfortable. That’s how you build trust with yourself. That’s how you show the eating disorder that it doesn’t get to have the final say.

My foot is healing, and so is my relationship with stillness. It’s not perfect, and some days are harder than others, but it is progress. And that’s what recovery really is—a continual evolution of yourself. Not a finish line or a flawless version of who you think you should be, but a steady unfolding, a deepening of trust, and a commitment to keep going, even when the path feels uncertain, hard, and uncomfortable.

If you’re navigating a setback in your recovery right now, I want you to ask yourself: what tools have you already built that you can return to? Can you give yourself permission to rest—even when it feels unfamiliar?