My alarm goes off at 4:52 AM.

I’ve been an ER nurse for 16 years. Twelve-hour shifts. Eighteen thousand steps a day on concrete floors.

And for eight months, I knew exactly what was coming before my feet ever touched the floor.

I’d sit on the edge of the bed. Flex my foot a few times. Grab the corner of the dresser.

Then I’d take that first step.

If you’ve ever had it, you know. It’s not soreness. It’s a stabbing pain in your heel, like stepping straight down onto broken glass.

I’d shuffle to the bathroom on the outside edge of my foot, holding onto furniture the whole way.

Sixteen years of helping people walk out of my ER.

And I couldn’t cross my own bedroom without holding onto the wall.

The worst part wasn’t even the shifts. It was everything after. I stopped taking the stairs at home. I skipped a zoo trip with my daughter because I knew three hours of walking would finish me.

My feet were making my decisions for me.