From Sling to Plank—Coming Home to Heal
“He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.” —Psalm 147:3
I’m sitting here wondering how my son has already graduated from college—and how my youngest, my daughter, is wrapping up her junior year and already applying to colleges of her own.
Where has the time gone—the past four years, the last few months?
And how has it already been two years since Jon left us?
Three graduations in the hat. One freshman year complete for my third.
Some days, I can hardly catch my breath.
It’s been almost two weeks since I was released from the doctor’s care, and a week since I was officially discharged from physical therapy with a home exercise program. There is still work to be done.
Just three months ago today, I spent hours in the ER, enduring the most excruciating pain I’ve ever known. For weeks, I couldn’t dress myself. I couldn’t lift my arm—immobilized in a sling for nearly a month. Never mind thinking about driving. I could barely get comfortable sitting in the car.
Suddenly, I was tasked with healing that shoulder through a level of commitment I hadn’t tapped into since walking my husband through brain cancer, stroke recovery, and all that came after. Back then, I was still raising our four children—three of whom were under 18 when Jon was diagnosed. Two of whom were still under 18 when he died.
But this time, the healing was just for me. Just for me.
I needed to regain strength to juggle the many things I carry alone. Sure, I have my kids to help with many things—but none of what “I juggle” is theirs to carry. I know all too well what it’s like to shoulder responsibilities too heavy for young hearts. I would never wish that on them, especially not on the heels of profound loss.
They’ve carried enough already, witnessing their dad, much too young, take his last breath after years of fighting to stay.
The night before I was injured, I had an emotional conversation with people I love. We spoke about caregiving—about who cares for the widow, who cares for the burnout caregiver, the one mothering through grief, carrying the weight of raising children without the one who helped bring them into the world. It was a vulnerable conversation.
And then, the next day, I was injured, and that gaping void showed itself again.
Surely I did not need this.
Because when you lose your spouse, you don’t just lose the love of your life. You lose the one who would have been the first to care for you in a time like this. The one to help you through—not to mention the one who would have made the contacts with the best orthopedic to treat my injury. This was his field of specialty.
My daughters dressed me, showered me, chauffeured me, and brushed my hair. For weeks, I couldn’t move my arm from the sling. I couldn’t even lift my arm to take my glasses off my head. The slightest motion sent electric shocks through my body. I’m not exaggerating.
If you’ve ever injured your shoulder, you know the pain and how hard it is to sleep. I thought my ankle injuries and surgery years ago were painful—until I remembered I didn’t need my ankle to get dressed. They’re still so painful, just with different limitations. And back then, I had a mom, a dad, and a husband helping me to get through this.
As I struggled, I was transported right back to the days I dressed Jon every single day after his brain surgery and stroke. He had to relearn everything while also fighting a beast. We both did. We knew there were risks with the surgery, but nothing quite prepares you for the moment the worst-case scenario unfolds in your living room in more ways than one.
This injury—like Jon’s diagnosis and loss—taught me a lot about myself. About my strength—the physical kind, yes, but also the kind forged by years of caregiving, grief, and quiet perseverance.
Over the years, I’ve cared for myself and my well-being whenever I could—lifting weights, running, going to the gym, and walking with my mom. Now, I’m the mom walking with her kids. Some of that fell away in the seasons when Jon’s needs came first, but I’ve slowly returned to it in the last year.
My daughter lovingly reminded me of this recently as we watched an older woman navigate stairs with visible pain. I quietly told her I hoped I’d never struggle that way.
She looked at me and said, “You won’t, Mom. Because you take care of yourself. You always have. You exercise. You eat well.” This validation stopped me in my tracks. I’m glad she noticed. Maybe I had forgotten that about myself.
I have to take care of myself. Now, I’m the only parent my children have left. While three may be grown and another nearly there, even my twenty-somethings still need guidance. They still deserve a strong, present mother.
When Mom lands in the ER, there’s no one else for them to call—no backup parent, no quiet voice beside them reassuring them it’ll be okay.
That absence still feels cruel.
This was among the most surreal grief moments since Jon died. I’ve had many, but facing a sudden orthopedic injury without him to drive, to advocate, to sit beside me—that one shook me.
But even in that, I learned. I remembered I’m a fierce advocate—tenacious, prepared, unrelenting when it matters most. I’ve navigated more hospitals and appointments for myself, my kids, and my husband than the number of years I’ve lived.
That’s not hyperbole.
I also realized that my physical recovery was possible because of the care I’ve invested in myself—lifting weights, pushing through fatigue, rebuilding muscle and mind after trauma.
“Start by doing what is necessary, then what is possible, and suddenly you are doing the impossible.”
St. Francis of Assisi
A week after my physical therapy discharge, I’m holding full planks, lifting weights again, moving with a near full range of motion, and living mostly pain-free.
I never thought I’d get here.
Not just to the plank, or the discharge slip, but to the moment where I could begin to re-enter my life again. Not the life I once knew—but the one I’m slowly rebuilding with the strength and range of motion I didn’t think I would have again, in a home that holds both ache and grace, certainly not only after 3 months. I have heard horror stories.
This kind of re-entry doesn’t come with fanfare. It comes with one small choice at a time—one quiet “yes” to showing up for myself, even now.
Sometimes I overdo it while pruning trees or pulling weeds. I feel the reminder, but even that pain feels purposeful. It reminds me I’m still healing.
“We always find that those who walked closest to Christ were those who had to bear the greatest trials.” —St. Teresa of Ávila
Healing doesn’t end when the cast comes off, the sling is set aside, or the appointments stop. It continues in the quiet moments—in repetition, in rest, and in choosing again and again to do the work.
And what a metaphor that is.
Healing doesn’t live in a single milestone. It unfolds over time through repetition, routine, and the courage to begin again. Some days, you feel strong; others, you feel every ache. But both days count. Both days are part of it.
I’ll never forget the decision to bring Jon home from rehab. I quietly, but briefly, questioned how hard it was. Others told me it was way too soon—but I knew it was the right call. I knew he needed to be at home.
The hospital was necessary, but home is where people heal best. That was true for him, and it’s true for me now.
The home program my physical therapist gave me isn’t just exercises. It’s a return to routine. A quiet rhythm of reclaiming strength inside the four walls where I’ve known both tremendous love and heartbreaking loss.
I won’t miss the pain or limitations, but I’ll miss PT—I really will. I had the best therapist with the best spirit—caring and feisty, just like me. She cheered me on when I had wins and knew when to pull back when I was in pain. I’ll always be grateful for the work she did with me and for me.
But now my kids—my best cheerleaders—are all home, and I can continue the work from here. The timing couldn’t be more perfect.
This next season of healing is mine to steward—the daily movements, the strength-building, the boundaries I fiercely protect, the choices I make to stay whole, not just for them but for me.
I’m still healing—in more ways than one. I may always be. But I’m stronger than I was. And I will never again underestimate the power of saying:
This healing is for me. I will do everything necessary to heal as best as I can, at whatever pace that needs to be.
Because when it comes to their one surviving parent, my kids deserve someone strong, steady, and still learning how to carry both pain and promise.
And so do I.
Maybe that’s the quiet grace of this chapter—coming home not just to finish healing, but to remember who I am within these walls.
The same walls that held our deepest sorrow now hold steady as I rebuild. This space has seen my heart break open, and now it’s witnessing how I’m slowly being made whole again—not all at once, not without effort and commitment and putting myself first—for once—but with intention, quiet strength, and the kind of perseverance that can only be forged through love and loss.
In my time and on this sacred ground, healing here feels like the most honest way forward.
It feels like coming home to me.
One final thought
I don’t know what your version of “sling to plank” looks like. But I know this: the Lord sees your quiet efforts to heal, rebuild, and rise again. Maybe your healing feels slow.
Maybe it feels invisible. But the Lord is with you in it. His grace will meet you—again and again—right where you are.
Healing will come. And like me, you may one day be surprised by how much you’ve poured into it…How far you’ve come…and even how quickly you began to recover—once you allowed yourself the time and space to heal, especially if that healing is happening quietly, at home.
Healing doesn’t live in a single milestone. It unfolds over time—through repetition, routine, and the courage to begin again.
Heather Lebano
For the record, this picture with my new graduate marks more than his milestone—it marks mine too.
A moment where I could wrap my arms—both arms—around him.
Strength and range of motion restored, just in time to hug my son in this moment we’ve both worked so hard to reach.
For such a time as this.
