Rehabilitation seems to have a fascination with milestones.

The first step. The first drive. The first day back. The first time doing something you couldn’t do before.

They’re the moments people ask about. The moments worth celebrating.

But what happens when the milestone doesn’t happen?

My arm and hand haven’t made the progress I hoped they would. There hasn’t been a breakthrough. No dramatic before-and-after photo. No moment where everything suddenly changed.

For a long time, I waited for that milestone.

Recently I’ve started wondering if perhaps the problem is the word itself.

A milestone sounds important. Obvious. Something that stands out.

But perhaps most milestones are just stones.

Unexciting. Present. Easy to overlook while you’re busy living a life.

While I was waiting for progress in my arm and hand, life kept happening.

.

Weekends happened.

Birthdays happened.

Friends and family happened.

Work happened.

Pub visits happened.

Rugby happened.

Not because I stopped wanting more recovery. Not because I’d reached acceptance. And certainly not because I wouldn’t take more function tomorrow if it were offered.

Life just carried on.

The milestone I was looking for never arrived. At least not in the way I’d imagined.

Maybe I was so focused on one stone that I missed all the others.

The ability to make plans again.

The confidence to book things in advance.

The ordinary frustrations of everyday life.

The things that have become normal enough that I barely notice them anymore.

Perhaps that’s the thing about milestones.

We imagine them as flags planted at significant moments.

In reality, they might just be stones. Quietly appearing along the path while we’re busy looking further ahead.

I’m not sure there’s a conclusion to that.

My arm and hand haven’t made progress.

I keep going anyway.

Maybe that realisation is the milestone.

Or maybe it’s just another stone.