No one wants to get injured. But the reality is, it's part of the deal when you play professional sports. The toll, the strain, and the constant demand you place on your body — something’s bound to give eventually. I found that out the hard way last December.
On December 15th, something happened to me that I’d never experienced before. My body broke in a way I never expected, pushing me past limits I didn’t even know existed. I tore my ACL. It was a moment that turned everything upside down.
But this wasn’t my first injury, and honestly, that might have been part of the problem. Back in the 2017 playoffs, I tore my adductor longus. It's one of the three major adductor muscles in your leg, and as the name suggests, it’s the longest one. It runs from behind your knee all the way to its origin point at the pelvic bone. I tore it clean off the bone. Just like that, my playoffs were done. But in my mind, I was still unharmed.
You see, back then, I still thought I was bulletproof. I think most young men believe that. Maybe it’s the testosterone, maybe it’s the culture we grow up in, competing every day. You feel invincible. So, I pushed through the pain. It took three years for my groin to feel normal again, but I didn’t let it stop me from playing. Missing time wasn’t an option.
The ACL was different, though. I had seen teammates go through it, so when the diagnosis came, I knew what I was in for. This was going to be a long recovery, and there was no fast-tracking it.
Still, I told myself, "This is just a four-month setback." I had a comeback plan in place almost immediately. I even wrote down a timetable. I’d be back on the ice on May 20th. I shared that publicly, almost as a way to hold myself accountable. It kept me motivated, but looking back, I couldn’t have been more wrong.
As the months passed, and May came and went, my strength was not where it needed to be. The soreness still lingered. My body just wasn’t cooperating, and reality hit hard. Recovery from an ACL tear doesn’t care about your plans, your goals, or your career. It has its own timeline.
But none of that was the hardest part. What really stung was where I was in my career when this happened. I was coming off a season that felt like the culmination of everything I had worked toward since turning pro. I had earned the chance to start major games for an NHL team. I put in the work, prepared for the opportunity, and finally, it happened.
Sure, the season didn’t end the way I’d hoped. I didn’t get a single playoff start, but it was a strong foundation. I felt like I was on the brink of establishing myself as a reliable NHL goaltender. The 2023-24 season was, in my eyes, my next step — a chance to prove to myself, and the league, that I belonged.
Then, things didn’t go according to plan.
From the moment camp started, I put enormous pressure on myself. I wanted to be the guy. The goalie I knew I could be. But with expectations like that, you set yourself up for failure. I wasn’t performing to my own standard, and the frustration kept building. I pushed harder, tried to fine-tune my game, but the harder I worked, the more things spiraled.
And then, on December 15th, my body finally broke.
At first, I tried to convince myself that it was a blessing in disguise. I told myself it was a chance to reset, get dialed in, come back fresh. "I’ll be ready for the playoffs," I kept saying, even though the doctors and trainers told me otherwise.
Denial is a funny thing. When you’ve spent your whole life pushing your body to the limit, trusting that it’ll always bounce back, you start to think you’re in control. But the truth is, sometimes, your body has other plans.
And so, I found myself on the long road to rehabbing a rebuilt ACL. I’d be lying if I said there weren’t times I questioned whether I’d ever feel the same again. Would I ever skate normally? Could I move like I used to? Those thoughts crept in more often than I’d care to admit, especially when every day felt like the same routine—rehab in the morning, then going home to lay around because, honestly, there wasn’t much else I could do.
Monotony does strange things to your mind. You start thinking about the worst-case scenarios, and before you know it, your head is in places it shouldn’t be. I’d find myself in a good mood one moment, feeling optimistic, only to be angry at the world the next. It wasn’t like me, but rehab takes you to some unreasonable places.
What caught me off guard the most was how much I missed being part of the team. Suddenly, I couldn’t contribute. I wasn’t in the locker room in the same way, wasn’t on the ice. It hit me harder than I expected. I’d always prided myself on being resilient, but it’s humbling to admit how much that isolation got to me.
This is the part that no one talks about—the mental toll. The doubt, the frustration, the sense of helplessness. It’s not easy to admit, but it’s real, and it’s what I went through.
But, there’s light at the end of the tunnel. As I sit here writing this, I’m over eight months removed from surgery, and honestly? I feel great, physically and mentally. I’ve learned so much about myself, not just as an athlete, but as a person. This journey forced me to reflect on what it means to live out a dream that started when I first laced up skates at four years old.
I’ve always taken pride in my hard work, but when you’re in the grind year after year, it’s easy to fall into habits without even realizing it. Complacency sneaks up on you, or you start putting so much pressure on yourself that you lose sight of why you started playing in the first place. This setback opened my eyes to that.
I’ll never take this opportunity for granted again. The dream I’ve been living—playing pro hockey with the best in the world—it’s something special, and I don’t want to forget that. There are ups and downs in every worthwhile pursuit. It's not about highs and lows, its about how you respond to them. I don’t know what next season will bring, but I do know one thing: I’m going to show up every day with my work boots on and a new sense of gratitude for the game I love.
