AMR Community Supporter Michelle San Antonio shares her running journey with a pesky bunion and how she’s finally ready to undergo surgery to tackle the issue once and for all.

My education on bunions began in 2013, during the final weeks of training for my first Boston Marathon. I was experiencing pain in the big toe of my right foot, which I learned was due to a developing bunion. My podiatrist advised that with some adjustments to my orthotics, I’d be fine to run Boston, but I should consider a shoe switch after the marathon to help alleviate the discomfort.

He also mentioned that if I continued to run, the bunion would worsen and surgery was the only way to permanently correct it.

He was right on both counts. I did run Boston—and three more marathons—successfully, and the bunion did get worse. Since that diagnosis, I’ve tried pretty much everything to stave off getting it surgically fixed: various splints; socks and toe spacers to position my toes properly; physical therapy and at-home foot exercises; and so many different types of running shoes, I lost track. (Adidas, Brooks, Saucony, Altras, Topos, Hokas, just to name a few.) And my non-running footwear choices are limited to shoes with a wide toe box and lots of cushioning, a combination not readily available in cute boots and casual shoes, and one that requires lots of internet sleuthing and lots of money.

The 2013 Boston finish line, and the beginning of the bunion

Up to and including 2020, I kept the pain at bay enough to run pretty much as I wanted. In 2020, I somehow managed to stay completely injury-free the entire year, despite running more than I ever had in my life; it was my way of staying sane during the year of COVID shutdowns. But ever since, the pain has intermittently returned, forcing me to take weeks and months off at a time. It flares up, I take several weeks off, I work my way back up to consistent running again, and it flares up again. It’s a vicious cycle, and even with the periodic layoffs, the bunion has continued to worsen, as I knew it would.

I’m finally good and ready for the cycle to stop, so surgery is scheduled for January 15.

There were several reasons I put it off for so long:

It’s surgery, which is always scary.
I will not be able to drive for six weeks.
The recovery process is long and difficult. I have been told to expect one week of full-time boot wearing (even while sleeping); somewhat significant pain and discomfort during that week; two weeks of very limited mobility; 4-6 weeks before even easy stationary cycling allowed; and likely three months until I can start a walk/run plan. That is a lot of inactivity for someone who normally works out 6 days a week.

All of those reasons are daunting in and of themselves, but when you throw three small children in the mix, it was, for many years, reason enough to not do it. My formerly small children are now anything but: two are full-grown adults living at home and available as extra drivers, and the third is almost 15. So although the recovery period will still be challenging, it’s infinitely more doable.

Post-surgery boot ready and waiting

I was excited when the surgery date was set. I’m ready to have a normal foot again, and to be able to run without pain and constant worry of injury. As the date draws closer, though, I’m leaning more towards terror. What if something goes wrong and I can never run again? There’s no reason to believe that will happen, but there’s also a slim or minimal chance that it could happen, so of course that’s where my mind goes.

In November, I registered for a half marathon, driven mostly by that fear that I could potentially lose this beloved sport forever. I wanted one last long-distance race under my belt. But I got sick two days before race day, and had to bail. Here in the Northeast, there aren’t a lot of half marathons after November, and none that worked with my schedule, so on a random Tuesday last month, I laced up my shoes and ran 13.1 miles. Just me, myself, and I, running on familiar roads along the ocean. There was no fanfare, finisher’s medal, or even finish line, but I shed a few happy tears when I hit stop on my watch at that magic 13.1-mile mark.

From now until January 14, I’ll run as much as I can, soaking up every last mile, with so much appreciation for what my body has allowed me to do these past 12 years. I’ve tried never to take a finish line for granted, and I’ve been pretty successful at that. If all goes well with this surgery, and I can keep crossing finish lines in 2025 and beyond, I’ll do so with a whole new level of gratitude.

Fingers (and sore, crooked toes) crossed that I get the chance.