Slow is fast

Sandra Butel beautywalk IFS Internal Family Systems yoga IFS therapy coaching women hip replacement surgery recovery personal growth pain slow is fast love — *Our true colours shine through …* Photo by Sandra Butel

I am Sandra Butel and this is my beautywalk.

beautywalk is the pathway I take towards deeply knowing myself and others. It requires patience and kindness and time for reflection. Sometimes it means taking my courage in both hands and facing things that have long been weighing me down.

Going deeper

I started seeing a therapist again.

It took me a while to decide that it was time to delve in a little deeper into all of the things throughout my life that have caused me pain. I had to find a new place to land first, move myself and my partner beyond the lives we had before and do the many things that needed doing before we found ourselves once again feeling at home in our bodies, minds and souls.

Fear is a doorway

I feel fear at the prospect of going inside again. And yet, there is a part of me that knows this fear is a doorway to releasing the emotional weight and unhelpful beliefs of the worn out stories I have been carrying around with me since I was small. They make it harder to move about, and much like my hip and its stage 4 osteoarthritic stiffness and pain, they are keeping me from reaching my true potential.

What ifs fill my mind, bringing with them a shakiness from all the stops and starts. I want to know if I can make it on my own. I want to find out if the next step will hold me steady or if the whole process of relearning how to walk without these cane-beliefs will leave me ripped wide open like a post surgery wound.

A leap of faith

It's a leap of faith each time I take on a new phase of my personal healing and transformation. I have to put my trust in my support team of experts and friends and focus on improving my strength a little bit at a time, accepting as I do the inevitability that my progress will be much slower than I would like. I have to believe that eventually there will come a day when I can put the most difficult chapters of my life story behind me as I continue on my way, forever changed.

I take my courage in both hands and move towards a process that will clear out the damaged parts with care and support so that there might be more room for something new to be added in that will leave me with a new spring in my step. This discomfort has slowly become a comfort of sorts simply because it has been with me for a while. But now, it is time to take a good long look at the roots of this imbalance to see what parts of who I have been are no longer serving the ‘me’ I have become, or wish to become in the future.

Pain opens the heart

After receiving a series of nudges from those around me who know me well, I find myself at the edge of a cliff with a shaking feeling as I peer far off into the unknown. “Pain opens the heart,” I remind myself, as the words that I so diligently copied out from one of the numerous books I have read with tears flowing down my cheeks, repeat once again inside my brain. I take a deep breath, close my eyes and take a leap, at least 65% hopeful that a net will appear to catch me as I fall.

Mirror, mirror

It occurs to me in a flash that this new journey of emotional and psychological healing mirrors my hip replacement saga. My brain takes a voyage back into the past to a few months ago when that process of physical transformation all began.

Something can be done

Flashback January to end of June 2026

I am dealing with day to day pain, increasingly limited mobility and the encouragement of a series of professionals are doing their best to convince me that there is indeed something that can be done to improve my ongoing physical situation. No guarantees are given, no magical transformations promised, but they are confident that removing the old hip and replacing it with a new one made of metal, plastic and ceramic will surely result in it not getting worse than it is already.

That’s all I have to go on, the desire to get ahead of the increased pain that will surely come as a result of the loss of cushioning between two bones and where they rub. My love and care for future Sandra is enough to push ahead as I put aside my worries and hope for all the best.

The surgery goes off without a hitch. Over the next 9 weeks I make my way from being unable to stand without the steadying arms of my loving partner, to the walker tucked beside the bed, ready and waiting to hold me up. Next up is the cane which the physiotherapist shows me how to use as I welcome her weekly visits to measure my angles, assign me exercises and tend carefully to my wound. My heart quickens and my eyes flush with tears the first time I walk a few steps down the hallway unassisted. Hope returns to my fearful heart, just a little, before being dashed a moment later as my right knee buckles under the pressure of its recent trauma.

My cane back in my hand, I slow my expectations to a trickle, focusing my energy on one step and then another, the mantra that came to me from the counsellor’s lips, “Slow is fast,” on repeat inside my ears. It isn’t until Francis has some plans with his brother out of town that I admit to the need for a sock puller contraption from the drugstore down the street. Francis rigs up my right running shoe so the tongue will stay in place and I practice several times putting on my right sock before I am confident I can do it on my own, my daily trips outside too precious to put aside. I only end up using it twice and the moment I am able to slide my sock on over my foot on my own brings more joy to me than the first place ribbons of my youth.

My walks, solo or with a friend, along the banks of the St. Lawrence River increase in distance everyday and before I know it I am able to go much further than the end of my block, an impossibility in the early days post surgery. I am pleasantly surprised one morning when I don’t reach for the cane as I make my way up out of bed and down the hall for a pee and then a coffee and then some dishwashing standing at the sink. I feel a rush of warmth in my body at the completion of each new task and a sock or shoe or hair tie or article of clothing picked up from the floor fills me up with glee. I am getting better slowly but surely and I start to see that I will soon be back to where I had been before I went under the surgeon’s knife.

Starting over

Starting over from square one has made me grateful for each little thing my body can do and I am not about to ruin it by too much blue skying it, knowing that if I get my hopes up too high I could end up feeling blue. “Slow is fast,” I remind myself. “Be here now,” is worth recalling too, as I sit in quiet appreciation for the sun, the wind, the trees and the infinitesimal and constant changes as they come.

My 6 week follow up appointment with the surgeon lasts about 7 minutes and all he has to say to me is that the implant looks the way it should and that the rest is up to me. “No restrictions,” has been his prescription from day one to 42 and he reassures me that “Yes, this means everything - riding bike, yoga, walking, dancing, sexy times and whatever else you happen to love to do”. He tells me that I have to let my body decide, “It will tell you when something is too much and for the rest just enjoy what your new hip is going to allow you to do.”

Re-forming

Off I go, nerves all a flutter, to one on one Pilates sessions with a teacher I admire. Noémie’s smiling face and carefully sequenced sessions on the Reformer machine offer me support and guidance as I make my way back to regular full body exercise, building one muscle at a time and regaining confidence in my abilities. I am also in the process of figuring out just how this new hip works, getting familiar with its twinges and pulls and allowing my body and mind to accept its presence. Before our third session I reach out via text to ask her if she can make time for a mini yoga sequence to assist me in getting me over my trepidation of returning to the studio. She pushes back gently, “My speciality is Pilates and that is what I am comfortable working on with you.” I swallow my resistance as she adds, “You can always go into a child's pose if you find the movement is too much.”

“Damn,” I think to myself with a sigh, “No one wants to give me what I am asking for. I want someone to tell me with 100% assurance that it will all go according to plan and I will be back at a regular yoga practice in no time.” I laugh a bit at this human tendency to look for surety where there is none. It is all up to me to take the next step, not knowing how it will all turn out; not knowing if I am ready for what comes next, not knowing if I can bear to discover that my yoga practice is forever done.

Fear and doubt

So there it is. The truth of the fear I am feeling as I return to the present moment, put on my workout clothes and make my way down the spiral staircase to the street below.

What if I can’t do it?
What if my hip dislocates while I am in some easy pose like the woman on the mat behind me whose cries of pain still chill my blood two years later?
What if I can never do yoga again?
How will I survive without this practice that has brought so much balance and strength to my body, soul and mind?

There is a lot riding on this first yoga class and part of me just wants to climb back into bed and put it off for a little while longer.

One foot in front of the other

I gently coax myself forward. “One foot in front of the other, Sandra. Make a plan for lunch at Welldun Pizza after yoga and then a trip to the beach for people watching and a swim”. As I leave the apartment, I focus my attention on not limping. My body has become so used to my uneven pre-surgery gait, that it needs a gentle reminder. I notice that the awkwardness of my first step has faded almost completely and I get into a rhythm of intentional forward movement.

The big comeback

I see a figure on a bicycle gliding up on my left and a familiar voice cries out, “The big comeback,” and “Woohoo!” My heart surges in recognition as the yoga teacher for the class to come glances back at me and smiles her beautifully gap-toothed smile before pedalling off with a “See you soon,” thrown over her right shoulder. A big smile has taken over my face and suddenly my nervousness gives way to ease as I take in all the familiar sights along this path that I have travelled almost daily for nearly a full year. That sense of home fills me up from head to toe and before I know it I arrive at the studio door, the lock code well remembered after a 2.5 months absence.

I take this as a sign that I am exactly where I need to be.

Welcome back, Sandra

I walk up the three flights of stairs, noticing as I do that my strides are wider and quicker than they had been pre-surgery. A warm “Welcome back, Sandra,” from the studio owner greets me as I cross the threshold, kicking off my shoes and hanging up my new straw hat and backpack on the hooks at the entryway as I smile and say, “Thanks so much, Carmen. It is good to be back.” Elody, the bike riding teacher, is there to greet me with a big hug and my step is light as I make my way towards the little square with my number on it where my mat has been waiting patiently for my return.

I roll out my mat, taking a look around at this light filled space, noticing the potted plants, two of which are in flower, nestled beside the white sheer curtains that are twisted to a matching point one by one. I unfold a blanket across my mat to give support to my knees and set up two blocks beneath me so I can sit up and take a few breaths, eyes closed, body still for a few minutes before class begins. My knees and thighs are tight and I add a third block to the pile beneath my bum, noting this first adjustment and wondering what others I will need for this foundation class of slow and steady movements that is to come. At Elody’s suggestion I set my intention for this class, remembering my new therapist’s adage, “Slow is fast, Sandra, slow is fast”.

As we move from standing to sitting to forward folds to lying on our backs or tummies I keep waiting for a twinge of pain that never comes. It is with some surprise that I find myself relatively at ease in a supported squat, my bum making its way lower down towards the floor than ever it has before. “My body is strong,” I think, as the emotion catches in my throat, “Stronger than I dared to believe it could be.” Tears fill my eyes and nose and a need to sniffle and wipe my nose distract me from the poses for a while.

Gratitude floods my body, filling me with heat from head to toe, my mind still refusing to fully believe it, even as my body proves it to be so. I lie on my back in the final Savasana pose, knees propped over a bolster, shoulders tucked under just like my teacher Kate has taught me, the sign that this first class is over and my yoga practice is once more.

Thank you for your presence

Elody closes class with her regular statement, “Thank you for your presence and your practice. Have a great rest of your day.” I look up at her and this time I am unable to say my regular, “Merci, Elody,” that I have said out loud after each and every time I have practiced under her guidance. My hands find my heart, one crossed over the other, and I nod my head a little in recognition as I show her how much her presence and this practice has meant to me today.

More blessing than curse

I take my time gathering my things, the tears still freely flowing and I croak a little word of thanks at the tissue that is offered by a fellow yogi that I have never met before. Elody is soon kneeling beside me to give me a post practice hug and say, “What a comeback! You were able to do it all.” The tears speed up as I reply to her in French, “I didn’t want to let myself believe that my ability to move could be better than before.” A swallow and then a whisper, “I didn’t want to build up hope and be disappointed.” Elody nods her head slowly as she says, “More blessing than curse,” to which I nod in silent reply.

Hope

How fragile is this hope I am feeling.

There is something else there too. A bit of resistance, not wanting to lose hold of my sense of gratitude at what my body is able to do. I want to protect myself from the ‘know-it-alls’ who have told me how much difference this would make and how I would soon be dancing the tango and forget very quickly about the struggle in between.

I am not yet ready to turn the page on this experience. I want to revel in the magic for a little while, of how a body can be shut down and then with a little bit of courage and perseverance and support can be built back up again, even more capable than before.

Pain opens the heart, indeed. Apparently its magic touch can improve the body too.

Trust the process

Now all I have to do is be patient with the next part. Trust the process, attend the therapy sessions, do the exercises, listen carefully to what my body, mind and spirit have to say, taking breaks in a child’s pose or friend’s embrace when I need it.

It is time for me to take another leap into the unknown, hanging on to my faith that this particular period of compassionately turning towards a lifetime of ignored and unresolved emotional pain will also come and go, leaving me even stronger and more whole than I ever was before. “Slow is fast, Sandra, slow is fast.” I take a breath in through my nose, blowing it out my mouth with an audible sigh of relief as I ready myself for what comes next.

I am Sandra Butel and this is my beautywalk. What’s yours?

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Resources for Further Study and Personal Growth

I have just begun delving into the work of Richard Schwartz and Internal Family Systems (IFS). It is all very new for me and I am cautiously optimistic that this new tool will result in some more insight into myself and other humans. I am not promising that it will solve all of my or others difficulties but am curious enough to learn more.
There are so many great yoga teachers out there and I encourage you to take a chance to get started on your own yoga journey. I have my friend Sue McCall to thank for starting me on mine, her gentle nudge was so valuable in getting me out of my head and into my body. Thank you so much Sue!

I have my Professional Coach Certification (PCC) from the International Coaching Federation and over 500 hours of experience working with clients who all tell me that their time with me has been an invaluable part of making the changes that they most needed to make. If you are interested in knowing what working with me might be like you are welcome to book yourself in for a free consultation.
If you are interested in trying out petsitting yourself you can use this link to get 25% of your membership.

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