When I hurt my shoulder, I learned that physical pain was just the beginning

Open this photo in gallery:

Yingtong Gao is a medical student at Western University.

Rugby shaped my life. I found the sport in high school, joining on a whim, and was instantly hooked by its camaraderie and blend of physicality, strategy and skill. By university, I was a varsity athlete, and my days revolved around practices, game film and weight sessions, all building toward the thrill of game day.

But rugby also brought injuries. And after dislocating my shoulder a few too many times on the pitch, I finally had to undergo reconstruction surgery in my third year, in October, 2020.

I expected to miss the sport I loved, and I knew recovery was going to be physically painful. But what caught me off-guard was the part that no ice pack or painkiller could touch: the emotional toll of recovery.

Opinion: What my stupid bad back taught me about chronic pain

My first glimpse of the mental challenges of recovery came in the days after surgery, when even the simplest tasks – tying my hair, zipping a jacket, popping a pimple – became gruelling obstacles, if they were possible at all.

Getting dressed was the worst. What once took seconds became a slow, sweaty ordeal that left my shoulder throbbing and my body trembling. I never thought I’d still be throwing tantrums at 20, but there I was, breaking down over a T-shirt I couldn’t pull over my head.

Just a week earlier, I’d been running, lifting, moving freely through the world. My body had always been a source of independence and strength; suddenly, I found myself sitting at dinner watching a friend cut my steak for me like I was 5. Instead of lifting weights at the gym, I was clawing back range of motion in my stiff shoulder, inch by painful inch.

I unravelled mentally as these small indignities chipped away at my patience, my pride and the self-sufficiency I’d always taken for granted. And it wasn’t just independence that I lost; it was my healthy outlets, too. Most of my hobbies and coping strategies were active – bouldering sessions that gave me a rush, workouts that left my body spent and my head clear – and cruelly, I was locked out of them at the very time I needed them most. I tried to fill the gap with TV, video games and reading, but while they distracted me, they never offered the same release.

I felt unrecognizable – not because of the pain, but because I could no longer do the things that made me feel like me. I was suddenly a stranger in my own life.

Four weeks after surgery, I was finally cleared to come out of the sling. I thought things would get easier, and in some ways they did. But a new kind of struggle set in.

Surgical repairs, my surgeon warned me, can actually be more fragile months into recovery than early on. Emotionally, I felt the same way. With no sling, my scar covered and most daily tasks manageable again, I looked fine on the outside. Without the visual reminder, people began to forget I’d ever had surgery. But I couldn’t, not when I still couldn’t do the one thing I wanted most: play rugby.

Open this photo in gallery:

The sport wasn’t just a pastime; it was an outlet, an identity, a community. It gave me structure and routine, goals to work toward and a sense of belonging. Without it, life felt hollow.

As practices carried on without me and group chats buzzed with updates I was no longer part of, loneliness crept in. I didn’t just feel left out – I felt myself slipping behind while my team moved forward. There was also a quieter kind of isolation: feeling unseen, like no one truly understood what I was going through.

Suffering from chronic pain? UofT researcher has some ideas to help you cope

Threaded through it all was guilt. I hadn’t lost a limb. This wasn’t cancer. I told myself I had no right to feel this sad. I felt selfish for mourning something so “minor,” weak for not bouncing back faster and pathetic for struggling when others seemed to endure far worse in stride. Ashamed of how deeply a shoulder surgery had affected me, I kept it all inside.

Injuries like mine occupy an awkward middle ground. They’re not life-threatening or permanently life-altering, though there may be reminders through the rest of your life: a scar, plates or screws, or the odd ache when you overdo it. They’re by and large temporary, but far from trivial. And because there’s no script for grieving something that isn’t catastrophic yet still upends your life, the emotional toll often goes unacknowledged.

But the psychological side of recovery is real: for athletes, yes, whether competitive or recreational, but also for anyone who depends on their body to work, cope, create or simply feel like themselves. Being sidelined is disorienting in ways that few anticipate.

I used to think my struggle was mine alone, but the numbers tell a different story. Research shows that more than half of injured athletes develop depressive symptoms, with a significant minority reaching levels typically warranting clinical treatment. Many also experience anxiety, anger and lowered self-esteem. And the relationship runs both ways; poor mental health can hinder physical recovery, making support all the more critical.

Making better choices for your brain can improve mental health, neuroscientist says

Despite this, the mental side of injury remains overlooked. We focus on timelines, rehab protocols and physical milestones. In pro sports, injuries are seen as part of life, and recoveries are seen as routine and inevitable. But we rarely talk about the quiet grief, the isolation and the identity shifts that can come with losing what makes you feel like yourself, for however long.

As both a patient and medical trainee, I’ve seen how often this part of recovery is ignored. We need to start treating the psychological aspect of recovery with the same seriousness as the physical - building it into medical care, team culture and the conversations we have with each other.

Until we do, we’re only treating half the injury – healing bodies while leaving minds behind.