If you looked up the phrase "going hard" on Urban Dictionary, you'd probably find a picture of my face.

At age 19, before I had even officially received my diploma, I started working my first full-time job in advertising while doing my degree part-time. My days were spent working insane hours, going to class, partying late into the night, taking naps and hitting the gym, before going to work and beginning the cycle all over again. 

Unsurprisingly for someone who can't sit still, I love sports. Boxing, bouldering, surfing, diving, hiking — if it doesn’t involve a racquet, I’m into it. 

But most of all, I love football — not just for the technicality and complexity of the game, but also the camaraderie. My teammates and I have made promises that we would play together until we’re in our 60s. 

In order to improve and play injury-free for longer, I invested in personal training sessions followed my trainer's online programme for years. You’d usually see me in the gym for three to six hours a week. The difference my efforts made were undeniable: After a few months on this regime, I was hitting personal bests on every lift. 

FROM HOPE TO UTTER DESPAIR

Then, it came to October this year. After over 13 years of non-stop hustling, I was finally on sabbatical from work.

I was at my strongest and healthiest. My mental health was the best it's been in years. To top it all off, I was now married to my dream guy! 

All the pieces of my life had finally fallen into place. I was happy; more importantly, I was hopeful for what I thought to be a bright future ahead. 

I was walking home after football one day, and, without any warning, my right knee just buckled. Right away, I knew something was deeply, chillingly wrong.

As I lay still in an MRI scanner, the worst-case scenario in my mind was a torn medial collateral ligament (MCL) — a short-term problem that can typically be fixed with surgery and diligent rehabilitation. But days later, when I hobbled into the doctor's office to receive my results and saw the concern in his kind eyes, I knew I was in for a rough ride. 

Being diagnosed with bilateral patellofemoral osteoarthritis at age 32 is pretty damning. Most people with this condition are over the age of 50, and the usual prognosis would be to do a double knee replacement surgery and to give up contact sports. 

After my consultation, I sat in the car and cried for a long while. I’m too young to switch out contact sports for swimming! I’m too young for osteoarthritis!

HOW BODY DYSMORPHIA LED TO OSTEOARTHRITIS

I’ve been 165 cm tall since I was 12 years old. At my lightest, I was 46 kg and at my heaviest, I was 75 kg. Pretty drastic, I know.

I grew up in the era of Keira Knightley and Kate Moss, but my genetical make-up is more "Trim and Fit Club". Fellow millennials will know TAF Club really meant FAT Club, where we were taught that if we wanted to lose weight, we had to eat less and run more. 

The more I ran in school, the more I realised I could actually run pretty fast. In a way, I was happily surprised: My body was good at something! 

I started receiving compliments on my weight loss. This spurred me to keep piling on the runs, always going faster and longer — all while subsisting on a diet of salads. 

By the time I was 16, I was running an average of 10 to 20 km a day, with no proper training, footwear, recovery or nutrition. 

One day, 3 km into a casual jog, my knees buckled. Afraid to find out what it meant, I avoided seeing a doctor and also stopped running altogether. 

That was the point at which the cartilage in my knees begun to degrade. And I wouldn’t find out for another decade.

I am proof that body dysmorphia and eating disorders aren’t just mental health conditions. They also have a long-lasting, possibly permanent impact on our physical health. 

THE ROAD TO RECOVERY IS NOT LINEAR

Upon getting diagnosed, I had only one goal in mind: To get back onto the football pitch as soon as humanly possible.

Within a week, I’d completed a bilateral arthroscopic debridement, chondroplasty and meniscus repair with the help of my doctor, Dr Gurpal Singh. 

By the second day I was doing pull-ups and had walked over 1300 steps, feeling very proud of myself for being able to move and shower independently. 

On the third day, in the midst of making the arduous preparations now required for me to undertake a simple shower, it suddenly hit me that I was just at the starting line, and the road to rebuilding my strength and stamina from scratch is a long one. 

I cried again.

It took me a while to process and embrace the full spectrum of my feelings. Hours in therapy has enabled me to acknowledge the beauty of being human: We are complex and messy. The sooner we learn to be comfortable with being uncomfortable, the more wholeheartedly we can live.

A week after my operation, a vase I'd ordered for a friend arrived — coincidentally enough, with its legs broken. I decided to order a separate Kintsugi set and attempt to fix the vase on my own. 

It’s messy and it’s not perfect — but it holds up, and my friend loves it. 

For me, this was an encouraging reminder that perfection is overrated, and that while my body may never be back at 100 per cent, a new beauty can emerge from the mess. 

I may not be able to play three matches in a row ever again, but I don’t have to give up on football, and total knee replacement is not inevitable. 

I’ve started sessions at Physio Circle. Their philosophy is “No last game”, which I've taken to heart. I recently managed my first push-ups in nearly a month, and I’m once again looking forward to the future. 

Slowing down has also given me the chance to finally start the podcast that's been on my to-do list for years now, titled Naked.Graced, where I'm excited to share my ugly, uncomfortable, authentic stories that will hopefully resonate with my fellow human beings. 

I have no idea what the future holds, but I know that it’s going to be worth it.
 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Grace Ke, 32, is an aspiring podcaster who founded her mental health podcast Naked.Graced.