Invisible Scars

The pain no one claps for, and the people who help us carry it.

I’ve torn my ACL.
Broken my fibula.
Torn my meniscus—twice.
Torn my MCL—three times.
Pulled my hamstring three times, my quad two times, and rolled my ankle more times than I can count.
I’ve even had my big toenail pulled off.

I’ve had five surgeries over my career. And while each setback had its own challenges, there’s something about visible pain that makes it easier—for everyone. When people see crutches, ice packs, or braces, they know what to do. They check in. They show up.

After each surgery, I was sent care packages and encouraging texts. Friends drove me to appointments, helped me shower, and did all the small things that feel impossible post-op. Yes, recovery is filled with lonely hours in physical therapy—but it also comes with moments where people show up in beautiful, unexpected ways.

I played for the Houston Dash during the 2023 and 2024 seasons—a stretch that tested me in more ways than one. Physically, I battled through a few more injuries. But what stood out wasn’t just the setbacks—it was the care. Especially from one person.

When you’re injured mid-season, you’re put on a return-to-play protocol. Every team runs it differently, but after playing on four teams, I can confidently say: the physical therapist at Houston was special.

In 2024, I was coming back from a knee injury that had taken forever to figure out. I had finally reached the phase in rehab where I could start running again—and I was pumped. For months, I’d been stuck on a bike, lifting weights, and nowhere near a soccer ball. So, when I laced up my cleats to go outside, I was smiling ear to ear.

“I grabbed you a water.”

I looked up and saw Copa, the physical trainer at Houston, walking toward me with two waters and her usual big smile. I’ve always found it impressive how medical staff somehow manage to smile through it all. I’d apologized to Copa so many times for being grumpy. She always laughed me off. She’s not the loud, cheerleader-type PT—she’s calm, grounding. The kind of presence that steadies you without needing to say much.

The team wasn’t training that day, which I was secretly grateful for. I didn’t want my first run back to be in front of anyone else—a bit of an ego thing, sure, but also nerves. As we walked to the field, the sound of my studs on the concrete grounded me. That sound always calms my nervous system.

Copa explained the workout as we walked. I nodded along, happy to follow whatever she had planned. Complaining would probably come later. I could feel that familiar pre-training tension rising in my body. I’ve always loved training—how my mind sharpens, my focus narrows, how my body knows what to do with every step.

We got to the field. Morning dew clung to the grass. The air was still. Copa walked me through a warmup. I was tentative, but not in pain.

"You feeling ready to get started?"
"I guess we’ll see."

Butterflies moved through my body. I trusted our rehab, but that moment—those first steps back—always come with fear.
Will it hurt? Will my body hold?

Doubt started to cloud the excitement. The smile slowly faded from my face.
The sun was rising behind the stadium, but I couldn’t feel the warmth.

Copa smiled and walked over to the starting line. Her back to me, she placed her cleat right behind the white paint.
I looked at her. "Are you running too?"
"Yeah. I’m going to do it with you."
"Really? Just because?"
She grinned. “Well… running’s always better with someone, don’t you think?”

To be clear, this isn’t in her job description. Copa’s job is to create the rehab plan, give timelines, treat my injuries, prep me for training—every physical detail that gets me back on the field. But she does more than that.

Anyone who’s returned from a long injury knows what a milestone that “first day back running” is. You want to celebrate it—but it’s also brutal. No matter how solid your rehab was, your body is rusty. There’s scar tissue, aches, tightness. The pain is real.

But physical pain is only part of it. The emotional injuries—those are the ones no one claps for. The ones no one sees. The ones you carry quietly.
And those don’t come with a rehab plan.

It took me years to realize that while physical recovery has a timeline, emotional recovery doesn’t. And that second kind of healing? That’s where most people are left alone.

The physical part of recovery is so consuming, it’s easy to ignore the mental weight. The fear. The sadness. The quiet unraveling.
Copa knows that.

One day, after a tough PT session, she said to me in a low, serious voice:
“Sometimes I wish I’d tear my ACL, just so I could understand and help more.”

Anyone who’s had an ACL tear knows how outrageous that wish is. But she meant it—with her whole heart. She wanted to walk beside us in the dark. To know what it felt like. To really understand.

There’s an innate loneliness in recovery—one that screams with self-doubt and invisible pain.
I know if she could, Copa would carry that weight for us. But she can’t.
So instead, she runs with us.

She doesn’t force deep talks. She doesn’t try to fix your feelings.
She just puts her cleat to the line and says, “Let’s go.”

When I first got to Houston, Copa was working on my leg and touched the scar from my college ACL surgery. I flinched and said, “Copa, I’d prefer if we didn’t touch my scars.”
She laughed and said, “Oh boy, you’d hate PT with me then. First thing we do once the stitches are out is go straight to the scar. That’s where all the sticky tissue builds up. We have to start working on it early. I even make my patients touch their own scars—it’s a really important step.”

That’s Copa. She goes straight to the wound, to the place that hurts most. Not to make it worse, but because she knows that’s where the healing begins.

Sometimes she’s rehabbing more than one player at a time. So you know what she does?
She runs with them both. Two full running programs. Back to back.

Because she knows what we’re carrying. She knows how far we feel from the game we love. By running, she is putting her hand out and saying here, give me a little bit of that weight—you don’t have to carry it alone.

And the thing about Copa? She’s not doing any of this to be noticed.

She shies away from attention, always brushing off compliments or ducking out of the spotlight. She doesn’t want credit—she just wants to help. That’s what makes it even more powerful. Her presence isn’t loud, but it’s steady. And it stays with you.

In life, we all face injuries—some physical, many emotional. The emotional ones are trickier. There’s no clear path. No progress chart. So we tuck them away—sometimes for later, sometimes for never.

But the weight always finds a way to resurface. And when it does, you have to decide: Will I carry this, or will I heal?

Over the years, I’ve tried to find tools that help me stay mentally well. Because the truth is, when we need these tools most, we’re often already too far underwater to reach for them.

So I try to practice before I’m drowning.

For me, it’s walking, journaling, and meditation.
Walking lets my body physically release.
Journaling clears the noise in my head.
Meditation helps me sit with stillness—no matter how loud my mind feels.

Some days it’s forced. Some days I don’t want to move, write, or sit.
I do it anyway.
Because healing isn’t about perfection—it’s about showing up anyway.

I think the world would be better with more Copas.
More people who meet your grumpy moods with a smile.
More people who walk you through physical pain, yes—but also see your invisible wounds, and instead of trying to fix them, simply say:
“I’ll run with you.”

Because what they’re really saying is:
You don’t have to do this alone.

I didn’t always have the words to say what I needed. But Copa knew. And maybe that’s what healing really looks like—someone stepping in, quietly, when you’ve gone quiet yourself.

Maybe invisible pain needs invisible heroes.
And to those of you working quietly behind the scenes to help others heal:
Thank you.