What My Achilles Injury Taught Me About the Nervous System, Healing, and EMDR Therapy

Recovering from an Achilles tendon rupture has been far more than a physical rehabilitation process. It has been a lived lesson in how the nervous system responds to injury, change, and recovery—and in many ways, it has echoed what I see every day in EMDR therapy.

Although this injury didn’t occur in a traumatic manner (I was playing volleyball surrounded by family and friends), the way my body has responded throughout recovery has deepened my understanding of how experience gets stored, how overwhelm shows up, and how healing unfolds when the nervous system is supported rather than pushed.

Stillness Wasn’t Optional—It Was Necessary

In the earliest phase, my body needed complete stillness. Immobilization wasn’t something to tolerate; it was something to honour. Healing required me to stop prioritizing what needed to get done and start listening to what my body was asking for.

That shift wasn’t easy. Like many people, I’m used to moving through discomfort by pushing forward. This injury made that impossible. My body set the pace, and my role was to follow.

This is something I talk about often in EMDR therapy: safety and stabilization aren’t something we rush through. They are the foundation that everything else rests on.

Everyday Tasks Became Nervous System Events

Once I began moving around with crutches (on one foot!), I was surprised by how demanding ordinary tasks became. Making tea—only to realize I couldn’t carry it. Navigating stairs. Bathing. Drying my hair. Making meals.

Each task required energy, planning, and then recovery time—often thirty minutes or more. And almost every physical effort activated my sympathetic nervous system. My heart rate increased. I would sweat. My body reacted as though it were under threat.

It wasn’t anxiety. It was exertion layered on a nervous system that had already been through a significant shock.

This is something clients often struggle to understand about themselves: the body doesn’t differentiate between emotional stress and physical demand. The nervous system responds to both in very similar ways.

When Capacity Is Reached, the Body Speaks Clearly

There was one moment that stands out.

I had carefully made my way down the stairs on crutches—already a taxing task—only to turn the corner and see a hallway filled with obstacles. In that moment, my system flipped quickly into fight (I was so angry!), and then into shut down. I couldn’t even imagine moving. Now, I could have pushed items out of the way, but in that moment I couldn’t phathom it. I melted down to the ground and cried.

It was a clear example of what happens when capacity is exceeded. Not because of weakness or lack of coping, but because the nervous system reached its limit.

For some people, moments like this become significant memory points—especially for those living with chronic pain or trauma. In EMDR case conceptualization, these experiences matter. They can shape beliefs about safety, capability, and vulnerability if they linger without integration.

Rehabilitation Hasn’t Been Linear—and I Didn’t Expect It To Be

As I moved through rehabilitation, there were periods of increased independence and ease, followed by new challenges. Being able to put full weight on my leg (even in the boot) changed my world. I could carry things again. I could meet my own basic needs. I could drive. Those shifts brought real relief and a sense of forward movement.

And then came the next transitions: removing the wedges from the boot, one at a time, every seven days. Each change altered the position of my foot and the demands on my body. With every wedge removed, I experienced physical exertion, nausea, and nervous system activation that gradually settled—until the next wedge came out and the process began again.

This up-and-down pattern is deeply familiar in EMDR therapy. Healing rarely moves in a straight line. It’s more like a spiral. We move forward toward greater integration, which often activates something new that needs attention. The system responds, adapts, and reorganizes, and then we circle back to a place of more ease—often at a slightly different level than before.

From the outside, it can look like going backward. From the inside, it’s the nervous system doing exactly what it needs to do to recalibrate and heal.

The Transition Into Shoes Was Surprisingly Demanding

One of the most surprising phases was transitioning into a shoe. Even wearing a shoe without weight-bearing for one-hour a day was exhausting. My nervous system was once again recalibrating to a new position, new demands, and new sensory input.

When I reached the point of wearing a shoe for a full day, my body responded with extreme exhaustion the following day. It felt like a shutdown—not because something was wrong, but because something had changed.

Sometimes I couldn’t fully listen to my body in those moments. There were commitments I couldn’t reschedule. When I needed to show up and be fully present, I chose to wear the boot as an accommodation—knowing it was a form of self-protection, not failure.

The harder part was managing my own urge to stay in the boot because it felt easier and safer—especially given that the risk of re-rupture was still high at this stage of recovery. I had to gently hold myself accountable to keep moving forward, while also responding compassionately to what my body needed.

That meant adapting constantly: learning how to move slowly and shuffle on snow, how to navigate uneven surfaces, and how to stay present rather than tense. Earlier in recovery, when I first began putting weight on my foot while still in the boot, I also had to learn how to work through pain.

What became clear was that my body was sending pain messages even when there was no actual source of danger. My foot was supported. My Achilles was protected. And yet my nervous system responded with a very strong no. Something bad had happened there, and my body remembered. Its message was clear: Don’t use it.

In those moments, the work was not about ignoring my body, nor about pushing through. It was about finding the middle ground—listening carefully, slowing things down, taking short and intentional steps, and gradually building tolerance. Each small exposure allowed my nervous system to gather new information: this is different now; this is safer than before.

Compassion Became Part of the Healing

I’ve been struck by how kind and accommodating people have been when they’ve seen me struggling. And I’ve had to learn to offer myself that same compassion, ask for help, and receive support, even for simple everyday tasks.

I haven’t been able to function at my usual level. I’ve made mistakes. I’ve missed opportunities. I couldn’t take months fully off work, even though part of me wished I could. So I’ve had to be intentional about pacing, planning, and letting “good enough” be enough.

That, too, has been part of the rehabilitation.

What This Has Reinforced About EMDR Therapy and Trauma Healing

This experience has reinforced many of the principles that sit at the heart of EMDR therapy:

Healing begins with safety and stabilization.
The nervous system responds to demand—physical or emotional—in the same way.
Overwhelm reflects capacity limits, not personal failure.
Progress happens in phases, not straight lines.
Accommodations support healing rather than undermine it.
And self-compassion is not optional—it is regulating.

In EMDR therapy, we don’t ask people to push through their nervous system responses. We support the system so it can do what it’s designed to do: adapt, reorganize, and heal.

That philosophy also guides how I approach EMDR training through Elevate EMDR Academy—with an emphasis on pacing, clinical judgment, nervous system awareness, and respect for the body’s wisdom.

Closing Reflection

Whether healing from physical injury or working through trauma, the body leads the way. Our role is not to force change, but to listen closely, respond thoughtfully, and move at the pace integration requires.

This injury has reminded me—personally and professionally—that healing doesn’t happen because we demand it.

It happens when the nervous system feels safe enough to let it.