Pulling the Goalie

Recently, my husband and I were invited on a weekend trip to hike with friends in Arches National Park. Oh, how I had been looking forward to it! I love hiking almost as much as I love running—that toxic lover of mine. And to do it surrounded by my husband and friends felt like such a gift. We even managed to snag coveted permits for the Fiery Furnace, a maze of sandstone canyons with no marked trails.

Aaron and I made the four-hour drive to Moab almost giddy, ready for a much-needed getaway and some time outdoors before the holidays. We arrived as night fell, greeted our friends with enthusiasm and began making preparations for the next day. We were buzzing with excitement.

After a not particularly restful night, we woke early, divided into carpool groups and headed to the park. We wandered through the Fiery Furnace for hours, climbing over boulders and squeezing into narrow slot canyons, before I began to slow down. Even with peanut butter and honey Uncrustables and Reese’s peanut butter cups fueling me, my energy started to fade. My quads burned in a way that didn’t feel normal. I was more tired than usual and so, so thirsty.

Still, the conversation drifted toward the next hike and tomorrow’s plans. Which arch should we explore next? Who wants to see Delicate Arch?
Me, my heart shouted. I do!
But my mind countered with reason. I needed rest.

That night, as we gathered in the Airbnb swapping stories and playing games, a brutal migraine struck. The nausea, the pounding pain—it all hit at once. Ugh. Why now? By the time Aaron and I headed to bed, I knew I wouldn’t be able to join the group for their hikes the next day. Even though I understood it was the right choice for my body, the sadness settled in deep.

The next morning, Aaron and I made an early retreat and headed home. As we made the four-hour drive we listened to Malcolm Gladwell's Revisionist History podcast where he talked about hockey. I don't know anything about hockey. I don't even like hockey; I'm in no way particularly interested in hockey. But what they were talking about caught my attention. Pulling the goalie. I'll try explaining.

In hockey, when a team is down late in the game, the losing coach might pull his goalie  and substitute them with an extra attacker, so instead of having a full offensive team and a goalie, the coach now has six offensive players and no one guarding the net. It's a risky move that, while making it easier for the other team to score, also increases the losing team's chances of scoring a goal and tying the game. The coach is making a calculated risk. Pulling the goalie too early will undoubtedly upset the fans in the short term--possibly in the long term if things don't go well. But if things play out the way the coach would like, well, then who's the hero?

I'm the type of person who suffers from Fear of Missing Out (FOMO). When people gather, I want to be there. I want to share in the laugher, get in on the inside jokes, make all the memories. You see, as a child, I spent most of my time with just my sister as my companion and friend. Due to divorce, job changes, moving, and general upheaval, we found ourselves separated from family and frequently changing schools. While teaching me how to adapt and quickly make new friends, I also took on a fear of being left behind.

For three years—while I waited for a heart transplant and later recovered—I was, out of necessity, left out of get-togethers and girls’ trips. I watched friends and family travel and enjoy activities that felt so exciting, yet out of reach for me. From home, it all felt distant, and I often felt lonely and left behind. Even now, during our walks, my friends sometimes reminisce about jokes and stories from the trips they took while I was unable to leave the area. It’s no one’s fault, but hearing those memories still hurts in a quiet, complicated way. Since then, I’ve fought hard—both mentally and physically—to rejoin the world: joining groups, getting active again, going on walks, hikes, and weekends away.

Until I have to pull the goalie.

Another way to explain this—drawing on an example Malcolm Gladwell uses, without getting political—is through America’s gun laws. In many states, there is a legal principle called “Duty to Retreat,” which requires a person under attack to retreat safely, when possible, before resorting to deadly force in self-defense.

It feels counterintuitive, right? Your property, your safety, your family may be at risk—and you’re expected to back away? To rely on retreat as your defense? Yet research shows this is actually safer. In states where “Stand Your Ground” laws have replaced the Duty to Retreat principle, homicide rates have increased, according to Gladwell’s podcast. 

I cried when the migraine hit. I cried again when I realized my health wouldn’t let me join the group on another hike. More than anything, I wanted to stand my ground, take some pain medicine, and be right there with everyone in the national park the next day. But logic was the rule of the day. I needed to take the calculated risk of leaving--choosing my health and well-being over my social standing. I might miss the jokes, the memories, and maybe next time even the invitation. But if I stayed, the risk could be far greater.

After my transplant, I had a lot of expectations for myself--most of them centered on participating again. I wanted to run again, to race, to take classes and teach classes again, to join every activity that crossed my path. If people were doing something, I wanted to be right there with them. But life never unfolds the way we picture it. It unfolds the way it will. And so we adapt--something I’ve become very good at. Sometimes the wiser choice is that quiet, calculated retreat. Sometimes we have to pull the goalie. Stepping back isn’t failure. Sometimes it’s survival.

In the end, I’ll be better for having made the call. My friends will be there on Monday with another invitation--I know they will. Hopefully I’ll be well enough to join them. And if not, I have faith that the people who love me will always hold space for me, just as I hold space for them.