The Good Choice Blog: When Recovery Meets Anxiety

By Tiawna LaMontagne 

On December 30, I had knee surgery. Five years earlier, during a recreational dodgeball game, I tore my ACL and damaged my meniscus in my right knee. For years, I lived with it — adapting, compensating, and having it randomly give out on me.  Then, suddenly, I got the call: two weeks’ notice. Surgery was happening.

I had never had surgery before. The moment I hung up the phone, my anxiety took off at full speed. There was no gentle buildup — it was immediate and overwhelming. I remember a friend asking, “How do you feel?” My response, “I’m freaking the *#^* out!” My mind jumped straight to recovery, logistics, and everything that could go wrong.

My first fear was work.

How was I going to make an income while recovering? As a small business, I don’t qualify for EI…How could I work if I couldn’t drive, walk properly, or stand for long periods of time? I had to reschedule and push back multiple classes, which meant January would be very light. And with that came a heavy financial worry. The uncertainty felt suffocating.

Then came the fear I don’t like to admit out loud: needing help.

I am not good at asking for help. I value independence, sometimes to a fault. The thought of being vulnerable — of not being able to do things on my own — terrified me. I worried about how I would manage immediately after surgery, how I would cope physically, emotionally, and mentally.

Once my mind exhausted that spiral, it found a new one-the surgery itself.

I had never been under anesthesia before, and my thoughts went dark quickly. What if something went wrong? What if I felt everything but couldn’t speak? My anxious brain pulled up the worst reference it could find — the movie Awake — where the patient is conscious during surgery but unable to move or scream. I worried about intubation, broken teeth, complications — all the things completely outside my control.

My anxiety was like a twirling dervish inside my chest — relentless, exhausting, and impossible to slow down. So I did what I could: I prepared. I planned. I organized. I tried to control the controllables, and then surgery day arrived. Walking into the hospital felt like balancing on a teeter-totter. I was holding it together, but one small shift and I knew I would tip. I went through physiotherapy, got fitted for crutches, and was handed my very fashionable blue hospital gown. I was doing okay — until the questions started. Simple questions, and suddenly, I broke. I started crying. The nurse looked at me gently and asked if I was okay. I told her the truth: I had never done this before, and I was really scared.

That nurse was an absolute angel. She walked me through every single step of what would happen that day. She reassured me. She hugged me — the kind of hug that grounds you when your nervous system is in full panic mode. And she promised me the best post-surgery popsicle I’d ever have. Somehow, that helped.

As I was wheeled down the hallway toward the operating room, I remember noticing how bare the walls were. I thought I could really use something to look at right now. A picture. A distraction. Even a cheesy kitten poster saying, “Hang in there”. Anything to pull my focus away from the fact that I was going into surgery.

The staff at Pasqua Hospital were incredible — kind, calm, reassuring. Then came the anesthetic. When I tell you anesthesia is a hell of a drug, I mean it. I don’t think I made it past counting to five before everything went dark. Nothing, and then — I woke up. The surgery was over.

The pain came quickly, and that first week was brutal. Getting into my house the night of surgery was an event all on its own. We have a lot of stairs, and the only bathroom is either upstairs or in the basement. Watching me get from the vehicle to the bedroom must have been quite the sight — but we made it.

That first week was an adventure…Not a good one. I needed help with everything. Showering felt like an Olympic sport. Going to the bathroom, moving, sleeping — all of it was painful and exhausting. I felt exposed and fragile in a way I wasn’t used to. The vulnerability was overwhelming.

My mental health took a dive. My anxiety took flight.

I started having panic attacks. I felt like a burden. My husband was supportive — helping me move, shower, prepare meals, and taking care of things I simply couldn’t do. And yet, instead of feeling grateful, my anxiety whispered that I was too much. That I was taking up too much space. That I should be able to do this on my own.

Here’s the ironic part. When my husband and I first met, just a few months into dating, he injured his foot and couldn’t walk. He was essentially bedridden, so he moved in with me so I could help care for him. And I was happy to do it — without hesitation, without resentment, without ever seeing him as an inconvenience.

I tried to remind myself of that. I replayed that moment over and over, hoping it would quiet the noise in my head. But anxiety doesn’t always respond to logic. Despite knowing better, my anxiety tried to fill in the gaps. I caught myself reading into looks or comments, wondering if my husband was getting tired or frustrated.

I knew, even before the surgery, that recovery would be the hardest part — not just physically, but mentally. So I planned for that too.

I booked a counselling appointment for one week post-surgery. That decision made a world of difference. Having a safe space to talk openly about the fear, frustration, and emotional weight of recovery helped release so much pressure. I also opened up to friends, and I am incredibly fortunate to have people who checked in consistently and reminded me I wasn’t alone.

What I do know is this: we are human, and it is okay to be vulnerable. That lesson is easier said than lived. Vulnerability has never come easily to me. And in 2026, I was thrown headfirst into it — asking for help, accepting help, letting myself be seen when I didn’t feel strong. That’s hard.

January has been a tough month — physically and mentally, but something else happened, too. I learned how to celebrate the small wins.

At the beginning of the month, I couldn’t lift my leg even a quarter of an inch off the ground. It felt defeating. Slowly, through physio and persistence, that changed. I can now lift my leg high. I used to have to go up the stairs backward — embarrassed and frustrated. Now I can go up and down on my own.

I looked ridiculous on crutches at first — barely moving, unsure, awkward. Now I’m walking confidently with them, and by the end of the month, I should be walking without them altogether, and I am counting down the days!

I’ve even returned to work a little — carefully and selectively — making sure the environment is safe and manageable. I’m exhausted at the end of the day and still need to ice and elevate, but it feels good to contribute again. It feels good to feel like me again.

Each of these small victories matters. They remind me that healing isn’t one big moment — it’s a series of tiny steps forward. And when I allow myself to celebrate them, something shifts. I feel proud. I feel hopeful. I feel human.

At the end of the day, the message I keep coming back to — the one we all need to hear — is this:

Grant yourself grace.

We are not meant to do everything alone. Needing help doesn’t mean weakness. Vulnerability doesn’t mean failure. Sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is say, “I need help right now”, and sometimes healing means letting others walk beside you.

 

If You or Someone You Know Needs Support:

Reaching out for support is not a sign of weakness — it’s an act of courage. Healing looks different for everyone, and needing help along the way is part of being human.

You are not alone.

Immediate Support

• 988 – Suicide Crisis Helpline
  Call or text 988 anytime, 24/7, anywhere in Canada.
  If you’re in crisis or worried about someone else, trained support is always available.

• HealthLine 811
  Call 811 to speak with a registered nurse or mental health professional for confidential advice and support, 24/7.

Counselling & Ongoing Mental Health Support

• Counselling Connect Saskatchewan
  Free, rapid-access counselling sessions (online or in person) for individuals, couples, families, children, and youth.
  Visit: www.counsellingconnectsask.ca

• Canadian Mental Health Association (CMHA) – Saskatchewan
  Offers education, programs, advocacy, and connections to local mental health services.
  Provincial line: 1-800-461-5483

• 211 Saskatchewan
  Call or text 211 to connect with local mental health supports, community services, and resources across the province.
  Visit: www.sk.211.ca

Additional Supports

• Kids Help Phone (Youth & Young Adults)
  Call 1-800-668-6868 or text 686868 — free, confidential support, 24/7.
• Farm Stress Line
  For farmers, farm families, and rural residents: 1-800-667-4442