I learned to ride a bike as a kid, like most of us do, knees scuffed, wobbling, fearless. But learning to really ride? That came later. On a road bike. With clipless pedals. With my husband, Jim, as my teacher.
It was our first real ride together. He’d adjusted the fit of my “new-to-me” road bike, gave me a crash course on gears and brakes, and introduced me to the wild concept of clipless pedals, the ones that, despite the name, actually do clip you in.
It was all a little intimidating. A little awkward. But I was game.
At some point during the ride, Jim reached over and gently placed a hand on my back to give me a boost, to steady me, to say I’ve got you. I’ll never forget how that felt.
So I tried to return the favor.
I reached over, just like he had, hoping to place my hand on his back and offer him the same support.
Unfortunately, I hadn’t quite mastered my balance. I leaned in too far, veered wildly off course, and went, quite literally, ass over teakettle.
My first crash.
My elbow, chin, and shoulder took the brunt of it. Off we went to CVS for bandages. Later that day, I showed up at Turning Stone Resort to meet my parents, bruised, scraped, and a little tender in both body and ego.
Months passed. My elbow and shoulder healed. Sort of. They scarred.
And one day, in the college gym, a young woman approached me, grinning:
“Are you a cyclist?”
I was surprised. “Yes… How did you know?”
She pulled back her shirt sleeve and proudly showed me her shoulder. “I have the same scar.”
Turns out, scars recognize each other.
The Fall, the Scar, the Still Point
That fall taught me something I keep learning over and over again: balance is a verb.
It’s not a place you arrive at and stay forever. It’s something you practice. Something you feel your way into. Something that requires constant readjustment. Especially when life throws you unexpected curves (or hills, or headwinds, or grief, or burnout).
Recently, I had to take a six-week break from work. Burnout had crept up and flattened me. Caregiving, overdoing, overgiving, pretending I was fine when I wasn’t, it all added up. I didn’t fall off a bike this time, but I crashed just the same.
That pause, though hard and humbling, helped me recalibrate. It reminded me what I’d forgotten: that my wellness wheel had gotten wobbly. The spokes — my physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual well-being — weren’t aligned. And without a true center, you can’t stay upright. You can’t even ride.
Balance, I’ve realized, isn’t about doing everything. It’s about doing what matters most, from a place of alignment. Of center.
Let the Wobble Teach You
Don’t let the fall take you down. Wobbling is part of the process.
So is crashing.
So is healing.
Scars connect us. Stillness centers us. And sometimes we have to slow way down, or stop completely, to remember who we are and what we need.
Balance is a verb. And I’m still learning how to live it.
©2025 Lori Ann King
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