One Year On: Lessons from a Broken Back

Photo credit: Olivia Hugh

I don’t usually keep count. I’m not one to mark the anniversary of a crash or dwell on moments of misfortune. It’s never been my way to adopt a victim mentality — I’ve always believed in moving forward, learning from the past, and using adversity as fuel. But today, one year on from a crash that could have changed everything, I feel it's worth pausing to reflect. Not to relive the pain, but to acknowledge the process — and the growth that came from it.

It was Stage 1 of the Volta Catalunya. A high-speed sprint finish. Just a few hundred meters from the line, a rider slid out in front of me. I had nowhere to go. The crash happened in an instant. There was no time to think, no space to react. I took the initial impact on my head, and then my back folded violently beneath me. That force is what caused the burst fracture.

The moment I came to — lying on the road — I knew something was terribly wrong.

The diagnosis: a burst fracture of my T10 vertebra. An unstable injury, with a bone fragment dangerously close to my spinal cord. The kind of injury that usually requires surgery. But thanks to an incredible medical team, we opted for a conservative approach — no operation, just time, patience, and a very strict back brace. It was the right call, but it came with uncertainty, fear, and many long nights lying still, hoping the bone wouldn’t shift, praying the nerves would stay untouched.

For the first two weeks, I didn’t take the brace off. Not even to sleep. I was terrified of making one wrong move. I broke the process into phases. First, survive those two weeks. Then, gradually start moving again. I vomited constantly the first few days — a side effect of the trauma to my spine and nervous system. One of those days, I lay in bed and thought, this is it. But I made it through.

And then, in true me fashion, I was back on the Tacx trainer on Zwift. Back brace on, mind focused, eyes on the Olympic Games and the Tour de France Femmes. It was a fine line between risk and resilience — between pushing forward and holding back. But I knew that if I could control my environment, I could take back some power. So I controlled what I could: my mindset, my movement, my approach.

I’m no stranger to injury. Perhaps the most formative one came long before I turned pro — in my final year of school, during a horse riding accident. I wasn’t wearing a helmet. I hit my head on a concrete block and was placed in an induced coma for ten days. Doctors said I’d never finish school. That I’d never be the same again. That I’d be brain damaged. But I recovered in three months, finished school with seven distinctions, and went on to study chemical engineering. That experience shaped me — not just physically, but mentally. It taught me that adversity is not the end of the story; it’s often the beginning of a new one.

Throughout my career, I’ve faced setbacks — broken collarbones, a fractured ilium in a violent time trial crash in 2016 — each time, learning that recovery isn’t linear, and that patience is often the most powerful kind of strength.

This broken back, though — it’s been different. Longer. Deeper. It’s forced me not only to recover physically, but to reconfigure how I relate to my body, my goals, and the athlete I strive to be.

The bone has now fully remodeled. It’s not the shape it once was — no longer a square but a wedge. My body has adapted to accommodate it, and that’s been its own journey: managing spasms, strengthening the surrounding muscles, and re-learning what “normal” feels like.

But let me be clear: I haven’t accepted that I won’t be the rider I was before. In fact, I haven’t yet had the chance to fully focus on the marginal gains again — on performance in its purest sense. I believe I could come back stronger. Smarter. More complete.

What I have done is learned how to adapt. How to contribute in new ways. How to reinvent myself in the face of challenge. Because that’s what life — and a long career — is all about. Maybe I’m not always the rider chasing results at the front, but I’ve grown into a road captain, a mentor, a leader. I’ve learned to bring value in other ways, and that too is something I’m proud of.

If there’s one overarching lesson this year has taught me, it’s that there is no such thing as instant success. We live in a world obsessed with quick results — with winning now, with bouncing back fast. But real transformation doesn’t happen that way. True growth — in sport, in life, in ourselves — takes time. It’s a process.

And in many ways, it mirrors a Grand Tour. You don’t win it in a day. You win it by showing up — stage after stage — navigating the highs and lows, weathering the crashes, adjusting when plans fall apart, and always keeping your eyes on the bigger picture.

So no, I don’t celebrate crash anniversaries. But today, I acknowledge the journey. And I recommit — to the process, to the pursuit of excellence, to becoming the best version of myself. Maybe it won’t look exactly like it did before. Maybe it will look even better.

The fire still burns. I’m still here. And I’m still moving forward.