The Courage. The Whimper. The Self-Pity.

I once read that what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. In my case, it mostly made me clumsy, irritable, and deeply suspicious of motivational posters. If resilience were a sport, I’d be the one stuck in the locker room trying to tape my metaphorical ankle while pretending I meant to be late.

The other day, I stepped barefoot onto a LEGO in the hallway. Not a LEGO set. Not even one of the larger, friendlier bricks designed for toddlers. No. This was the evil, single-stud variety—hard, angular, and forged in the fires of childhood malice.

There was a sound—part shriek, part wounded seagull—as my body went rigid and my soul momentarily left to file a formal complaint. I shot into the air like a Victorian ghost discovering central heating, grabbed at the wall, missed entirely, and collapsed into a pile of coats with the grace of a winded marionette.

My foot pulsed. My ego whimpered. Somewhere in the distance, a child laughed—possibly imaginary, possibly time-travelling from a parallel dimension to witness my downfall.

I lay there, crumpled, clutching my foot and bargaining with deities I don’t even believe in. All dignity abandoned. I whimpered something that may have been ‘Why?’ or may have been ‘Ow’ in Morse code. And as I blinked through the tears and loose coat fluff, I thought: Maybe this is resilience now.

Not the sort that makes headlines or hashtags. I don’t rise like a phoenix—I rise more like expired dough: eventually, and with a strange shape. My bounce-back routine includes snacks, selective denial, and an intense emotional conversation with the kettle.

The Quiet, Chaotic Side of Resilience

They say push forward when things get hard. I do. Mostly by making lists I won’t follow, researching obscure symptoms I definitely don’t have, and declaring that now is the perfect time to alphabetise my spice rack. Some charge into adversity. I veer sideways and call it ‘reframing’.

I even hired a ‘chaos-proof’ life consultant once. She lasted three days, then quit—muttering something about vibrations and the ethical limits of spreadsheets. Apparently, even the professionals can’t systemise the messy art of endurance.

Toughness, I’ve learned, is often fear in performance fleece and protein powder. It flexes. It posts. It references wolves a suspicious amount. But real resilience? It’s quieter. Less Instagrammable. More likely to involve dry shampoo, forgotten laundry, and staring at the wall mid-toast.

I don’t conquer adversity. I make it a snack plate. I believe in standing tall—preferably on carpet, with good lighting and something sturdy nearby in case I list to one side.

Falling down isn’t failure. It’s rehearsal. And I’ve had loads of rehearsal. My recovery style is interpretive—less of a bounce, more of a complex wobble. If grace is falling and getting back up, I specialise in the transitional bit where you lie still and think about biscuits.

Some people rise with purpose and polish. I rise because lying down too long makes my hip click. But I rise, nonetheless.

Wobbly Wisdom and Reluctant Resilience

I used to think resilience meant becoming unbreakable. Now I think it means knowing which cracks to tape up and which to let air out slowly. Like a bike tyre with self-esteem issues.

I am not the hero of my own story. At best, I’m the supporting character with great reaction shots and excellent snack suggestions. I’m not here to slay dragons. I’m here to point out that the dragon’s probably tired too, and maybe just wants to be left alone with a podcast and some crisps.

These days, I trust discomfort more than calm. Calm feels like a trap. Like the universe holding its breath before dropping another metaphor on my head. So I move forward—not confidently, not gracefully, but with a sort of reluctant humour that passes for wisdom if you squint.

If I have a philosophy—and I say this loosely—it’s this: resilience isn’t about bouncing back. It’s about not falling apart in a way that ruins the carpet. It’s showing up when you’d rather evaporate. It’s laughing mid-flinch. It’s enduring without needing to prove it.

I’m still here. Slightly bruised. Mildly sarcastic. Strong enough to keep going, self-aware enough to lie down when I need to, and wise enough to check the hallway for hazards.

` I’ve learned to step around it. Most days.

[Sound of foot meeting plastic.]

‘OH, FOR THE LOVE OF—’

[A loud thud. A crash. Possibly a lamp toppling. Something ceramic meets its end.]

‘I SWEAR ON ALL THAT IS HOLY—WHICH FLYING MONKEY-WITCH-DEMON CHILD LEFT THIS HERE?!’

[Heavy breathing. The sound of someone trying to stand up while also trying not to cry.]

…Anyway.

Resilience. Very important.