I hurt my wrist last week.

With Remembrance Day falling on a Monday this year, my usual exercise class was cancelled that day. My trainer texted me that evening and offered me a make-up spot in her Tuesday morning class. Since I regularly go Monday, Wednesday and Friday, this meant I would do strength training two days in a row. Which usually spells trouble for this body.

As tough as I like to think I am, there’s nothing like Heather’s Boot Camp to show me: Oh, I’m NOT.

I mean, I do okay but I’m nothing like the poetry-in-motion that Heather is when demonstrating a new move. Performing her routines run the gamut for me from: I feel awesome! I’m knocking it out of the park! to What fresh hell is this? My execution can be more like a limerick than a sonnet on the poetry scale.

Any time I make the mistake of agreeing to two of her hard workouts in a row, I wind up in just a little more pain than I bargained for. I’m not talking about general exercise soreness – I’ve been at this long enough to have moved past that. It’s more like me standing at the foot of the stairs wondering how to convince my knees to bend again.

Except this time, it’s my wrist. My right wrist. Operator of all happy things like pens and can-openers and hairbrushes. It never before occurred to me how important the wrist is to the fine-motor skills needed in pinching and grasping. Administering my daily morning eyedrops? Nearly impossible with my right hand. Lifting my coffee cup to my lips? Excruciating. (I’m not talking about physical pain: I nearly spilled my coffee!)

And may I go out on a TMI-limb here and mention how important a strong wrist is in the act of wielding toilet paper? Yeah, it’s a thing.

Lucky for me, the state of my wrist is not affecting my ability to poke at a keyboard. But it does send me down that rabbit hole of thinking: What if I couldn’t write anymore, via pen or pencil or laptop?

This very painful scenario was demonstrated to me the week before in my writer’s group. That evening we pulled individual prompts from an envelope, which we would have twenty minutes to write about and then read aloud for the group. One of our older members gave an exasperated sigh when she drew: Write about something you can’t do anymore.

Sitting across from her, I noticed that as the rest of the group was scribbling away nonstop, she was writing very little, and nothing that looked like full sentences. When it was her turn to reveal her prompt, it was suddenly clear why: old age had caught up to her and what she couldn’t do anymore was hold a pen and write. We gave a collective groan, understanding that the act of holding a pen and scribbling was an integral part of feeling like a writer.

But.

Does not being able to hold a pen change the fact that she still is a writer? No, it does not. She admitted that she can still use a keyboard. But neither implement is necessary to write. A person could “write” by dictation or by videorecording if conventional options weren’t available.

I have struggled with calling myself a writer, especially for the years when I was writing very little and mostly for myself. But I’m slowly embracing that label as I have come to understand writing as part of my identity and not necessarily what I do.

That being said, while I am able, sore wrist and all, I need to act on that identity and write. Even if no one reads it. Even if it hurts. Even if it’s just a blog. It’s all writing and it all counts.