The Unexpected Promotion of My Left Hand

Breaking my wrist a few weeks ago was inconvenient, not catastrophic. Many people live with far more serious and permanent physical limitations, and my temporary experience does not compare with theirs.

Still, even a small disruption can teach us something.

The accident involved a large piano, a trailer, and the mistake of standing in exactly the wrong place – enough said!

My left hand had spent decades in a supporting role. Then, without warning, it was moved into senior management. It had little experience, no training, and far more confidence than its performance justified.

Shaving was its first major test.

Using a razor with my left hand was both terrifying and embarrassing. There was some bloodletting—not enough to require medical attention, but enough to confirm that the learning curve was steep.

After one video call, my wife informed me that I had failed to mow a significant portion of one side of my face. I had technically shaved. I had simply not shaved everywhere.

Brushing my teeth was safer, but not always more dignified. My mouth and left hand had not yet learned to work as a team, so the toothbrush occasionally landed on my cheek. More than once, I finished with that unmistakable white spot of toothpaste in the corner of my mouth.

Eating was also an adventure. Spooning cereal and milk required intense concentration, yet breakfast still tended to spread beyond the bowl. The spoon usually left with good intentions. Its arrival at my mouth was less certain.

Typing slowed to a crawl, and misspellings abounded. My thoughts still moved at normal speed, but my fingers were operating under severe staffing constraints.

Because I could not lift anything with my right hand, my left arm began lifting everything—and I mean everything. It became stronger. It also became much sorer.

By evening, my left seemed ready to file a formal grievance over carrying the entire organization.

Even putting my arm around my wife in bed became dangerous. What had once been a gesture of affection was now a three-pound cast—a potentially lethal weapon. She became less interested in being embraced and more interested in knowing the cast’s location and trajectory.

The experience taught me several things.

First, awkward does not mean impossible. Nearly every task felt unnatural at first. But with repetition, my left hand improved at all of them—though it mastered none.

There is a lesson in that. Progress does not require mastery. Sometimes becoming capable enough is a meaningful victory.

We often say, “I’m not good at this,” when what we really mean is, “I have not practiced this.”

Second, necessity changes the conversation. Before the accident, I might have said I could never shave, eat, type, or function well with my left hand. It turns out that “I could never” often means, “I would strongly prefer not to.”

Third, adaptation has a cost. My left arm grew stronger because it had to, but it also became tired and sore. The same is true in families and organizations. When one person cannot carry a responsibility, the load shifts somewhere else.

Fourth, feedback matters. I thought I had shaved successfully. My wife had additional data. Confidence is useful, but it is not a reliable quality-control system.

Finally, we still need to get out there. It would have been easy to put life on hold until the cast came off. Instead, I completed several hikes on the Continental Divide with one arm in a cast and the other holding a hiking pole.

I was slower, less balanced, and far more aware of every rock and tree root. But the hikes gave me a new perspective. A limitation did not mean I had to stop doing what I enjoyed. It meant I had to do it differently—and more carefully.

Challenges can tempt us to wait until conditions are ideal. Sometimes the better choice is to get out there as we are: cast, hiking pole, awkwardness and all.

My injury was temporary, but it showed me how quickly the unfamiliar can become manageable. We may begin clumsily. We may spill milk, miss part of our chin, or leave toothpaste on our face. But with enough necessity and practice, we improve.

When my right hand returns to full duty, my left hand will probably be demoted to its former supporting role.

It has still earned my respect.