A personal account of cold injury, nerve recovery, and
learning to let the body lead.
My first ski day of the
season. The second run of the morning.
And everything changed.
It was around 19 degrees
at the base, colder as the lift climbed higher. A typical New England winter
day. Nothing I hadn't handled before.
What I didn't account
for was stillness. Unlike normal skiing, where your body is constantly
generating heat through movement, I was suspended, unable to move, unable to
warm myself. Prolonged exposure without movement is a completely different
animal. Cold is cold.
A mechanical failure
left me stuck on that chairlift, in cold, wet conditions, for about two hours.
By the time ski patrol
reached me, I wasn't okay.
At the time, I didn’t realize this would be my last full ski day...
What surprised me
What I didn't expect was
that it didn't end when I was rescued.
In the days that
followed, my body was still processing what had happened. Tightness in my neck
and shoulders. Fatigue. A nervous system that clearly needed time to
recalibrate.
I later learned that
this kind of delayed response isn't uncommon after extended cold exposure and
stress. The symptoms don't always appear right away, they can surface hours,
even days later, as the body slowly comes out of shock…
I also came to
understand that not everyone responds the same way. Just as not everyone burns
in the sun, the body's response to cold and stress varies widely. This was
mine.
While others were evacuated that day,
there were no widely reported injuries from the lift stoppage itself. That
distinction matters. This wasn't about what happened to everyone — it was about
how my body specifically responded under prolonged cold, immobility, and fear.
I wasn't alone
One thing I haven't
shared until now: I wasn't alone through it, even while physically stuck.
I had my phone in my
pocket with a close friend on the line the entire time. She heard everything
unfold in real time. From calm to crisis. Including multiple 911 calls while I
was still suspended in the air.
What started as a
manageable situation changed quickly. There was a clear shift in my ability to
regulate, to think, to respond, to stay present. That progression matters,
because this wasn't just about being cold. It was about what happens when the
body crosses a threshold it was never meant to hold.
By the time I was
brought down, I couldn't feel my legs well enough to walk. Ski patrol helped me
to the ambulance, where they worked to rewarm my body and monitor my condition.
At that point, this was no longer just cold, it was a full-body stress
response: circulation disrupted, nervous system overloaded, regulation gone.
That night, my feet
turned a purplish, blotchy color. I knew something wasn't right. The symptoms
made that clear.
What neuropathy actually feels like
Symptoms began shortly
after and evolved over the following days. First, tingling. Then burning. Then
long, sleepless nights.
Neuropathy isn't just
"pins and needles." It's:
- Burning feet that wake you at 3am
- Tingling that never fully shuts off
- Hot, inflamed sensations one day — cold, disconnected patches the
next
- A nervous system that feels perpetually on edge
- Sitting becoming uncomfortable, even for basic work
- Finding relief only when you move, even when you're utterly
exhausted
It's unpredictable. And
that unpredictability wears on you in ways that are hard to explain…
What's actually happening in the body
What I've come to
understand is that this wasn't just about cold or circulation, it was nerve
involvement.
Sustained exposure to
cold and immobility can irritate or injure the nerves in your hands and feet. When that
happens, the signals between the brain and body become disrupted. That's what
creates the burning, the tingling that won't quit, the hypersensitivity to heat
or cold, the difficulty regulating temperature in your feet.
It's not just
discomfort. It's the nervous system trying to recalibrate after a crisis it
didn't sign up for.
There's also a stress
component. After intense cold and fear, the nervous system can stay in a
heightened state, which increases sensations like tingling and burning even as
the body is working to heal. Nerves don't recover overnight. They heal slowly,
often from weeks to months, and they respond best to consistency, not force.
This is my personal
experience and understanding — not medical advice.
Four months later
It is now April.
I'm not fully healed.
But I am nowhere near where I started.
The burning episodes
have begun to calm. The tingling is still there, but more manageable. Sleep is
improving. Slowly, steadily, things are shifting.
What I've learned is
that healing isn't about pushing through or stopping completely. It's about
listening — really listening — and responding to what your body actually needs,
not what you wish it needed.
The emotional side no one talks about
There was something else
I began to notice: resistance.
Not just to the pain,
but to the pace of healing itself. I wanted my body to move faster. To fix
itself. To return to normal. But the more I resisted where I was, the more
tension I created physically and mentally.
There were also moments when
I didn't feel like myself, foggy, disconnected, slower than usual. That part was
just as unsettling as the physical symptoms. I later understood this can happen
as the body comes down from a continued stress response.
At some point, I had to
shift. Not into giving up, but into allowing. Allowing the process. Allowing
the timeline. Allowing my body to lead instead of forcing it to follow.
There's a quiet fear that creeps in
during something like this: Is this permanent? When you're used to
being strong, capable, and active, it's deeply unsettling when your body stops
responding the way it always has.
There were moments of
frustration. Exhaustion. Moments where I had to advocate for myself more than I
ever expected. But there was also a deeper lesson unfolding, one that required
patience, trust, and a different kind of strength than I was used to.
There was something else
I didn't expect: support showing up in ways I hadn't asked for.
My study group was
praying for me. I was praying for myself. Family and friends were checking in,
sometimes just to say they were thinking of me.
And in the middle of it
all, a close friend did something simple but quietly profound she brought meals
on the days I didn't have the energy to take care of the basics.
It reminded me that even
in a season that felt deeply isolating, I wasn't truly alone. Not physically.
Not spiritually.
What I didn't expect to grieve
Skiing was something I
did for years. It wasn't just exercise; it was how I moved through winter. Time
with friends, fresh air, the kind of easy camaraderie that makes a cold winter season
feel lighter.
If I'm being honest, I
don't know that I'll ski again. Not out of fear, but out of awareness. Some
experiences change how you see things. They shift what feels worth it and what
doesn't.
There's a part of me
that grieves that chapter. And there's also a quiet clarity in choosing what
actually supports my body moving forward.
What's helping me heal
Healing hasn't come from
one big breakthrough. It's been small, consistent choices repeated over weeks:
- Supporting my body with magnesium, key B vitamins, and hydration
- Managing inflammation and resisting the urge to push too hard
- Gentle movement instead of complete rest
- Elevating my legs when needed
- Prioritizing sleep, even if it meant short-term support to get there
- Calming my nervous system not just reacting to symptoms as they came
- Avoiding compression (tight socks, restrictive shoes) that
aggravated irritated nerves
- Avoiding extremes, especially excessive heat, which intensified the
burning
None of this was about
fixing it overnight. It was about creating the conditions for healing to happen
and then getting out of the way.
The thing I didn't fully
grasp early on: calming the nervous system isn't optional in recovery like
this. It's foundational. When the body stays in a heightened state, symptoms increase.
When it feels safe, it begins to repair.
The turning point
I didn't wake up one day
suddenly better. But I started seeing progress.
I went from pressing 150
pounds down to just 35 when my body felt weak and uncertain. Recently, I
reached 100 pounds again. Not where I was but moving forward.
I was also afraid to get
back on my bicycle. I didn't know how my feet would respond, or whether the
pressure would set things back.
But I tried. There was
tingling. But it was doable.
That moment mattered
more than anything else. It reminded me that I'm still capable even in the
middle of healing.
What I wish I knew sooner
Nerve healing follows a
completely different timeline than muscle recovery. You can't rush it. Symptoms
can vary during the process better one day, back the next without meaning
you're going backward.
Pushing harder doesn't
speed it up. It can actually delay it.
What I wish someone had
told me earlier: calm the nervous system consistently. Support circulation
without overdoing it. Pay attention to the subtle signs of progress, not just
the setbacks. Healing isn't about doing more. It's about doing the right things,
repeatedly, and trusting the process even when you can't see it working.
A quiet reflection
This all happened in the
heart of winter, a season I used to move through quickly, filling it with
activity, plans, and momentum.
But this winter didn't
allow that. It asked something different of me.
Stillness. Reflection.
Patience.
The very things I would
have normally resisted became the exact conditions I needed to heal.
I'm starting to
understand that winter isn't something to get through. It's something to learn
from.
Strength doesn't always look like
pushing harder. Sometimes it looks like listening more closely.
Looking back, the
scariest moments were often just the body doing exactly what it needed to, I
just didn't know how to read it yet.
Have you ever been
forced into a slower season you didn't choose, only to find - later, quietly - that it gave you something you couldn't have found any other way? I'd genuinely
love to hear what that looked like for you.
If this resonated with you, I share more reflections on gut health, healing, and whole-person wellness at Forward ThinKer Wellness. Follow along or reach out directly at forwardthinkerwellness@gmail.com — I'd love to connect.
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