The doctor said six weeks.

Melodramatically, those six weeks seemed akin to a prison sentence; except my body was the jail cell.

Each hour of every day, my leg was encased inside a metal cage. For those first few nights sleep evaded me; the metal cutting into my leg was uncomfortable, to say the least.

Purple hues marked my underarms and my biceps ached by the day's end. Walking up the stairs left me heaving and I was annoyingly slow whenever I did anything.

My physical injury was noticeable to passerby; a little too conspicuous, if you ask me.

I cannot wait to board an elevator without someone asking me the monotonous question, "What happened to you?"

The contraption, atrophying my leg, and the crutches, bulking-up my arms, were a ready-made conversation piece, but I quickly grew sick of the repetitive exchange.

"How'd that happen?"

"Oh, I tripped on spring break."

"That sucks. How long are you on those things?"

(Those "things" were my beautiful, silver crutches from Walgreens.) (And no, this article is not sponsored.)

"Six weeks."

"Geez, well, feel better soon!"

"Aw, thank you, you too!"

Yet, I learned a lot these past six weeks.

On week one, I learned the full extent of my physical limitations. My internal monologue went something like, "Nope, not that either. Nice try, but definitely not."

On week two, I realized how conspicuous individuals on crutches, scooters and wheelchairs truly feel. No matter where you go, eyes trail your slow progress. Some with sympathy, others with curiosity and still others with condescending pity.

On week three, my car was towed from a disabled parking spot on private, residential property that required a special decal.

After interacting with the hoodlums at Superior Towing, here is my review. Never have I encountered such unmerciful and rude humans in my life.

If I had been full mobile, I would have climbed the fence and used my car as a battering ram. They would have been left in my dust with a broken fence and without my hundred dollar fine in their greedy hands.

On week four, I became righteously outraged by how inaccessible buildings are for the physically impaired.

Doors became enemy number one! Who knew they could be so heavy or difficult to finagle without hands?

Then, when you eventually become fed up with stairs, elevators were oftentimes unreliable.

On week five, I thanked heaven for a state-issued, temporary disabled parking decal. However, that decal does not ensure that you actually can find a disabled parking spot.

Beware, the disabled spots outside of the infirmary are for visiting patients only!

That being said, most disabled parking spots are inconveniently located. The university's campus is filled with hills of various inclines, thus, ensuring that every class or library visit is a considerable hike.

On week six, I reflected on the immeasurable blessing of selfless friends. Seriously, I think I owe them my life's savings in gas money alone.

As much as I naturally dislike relying on others, I acknowledge that I wouldn't have survived the last six weeks on my own.

Whether acting as my UBER or my cheerleader, my true friends showed up in my weeks of need.

Over these past few weeks, I've battled feelings of insecurity, helplessness and depression. My vanity, my stubborn self-sufficiency and my source of joy have been tested, respectively.

I sit atop the examination table. A brace-free, crutch-less summer awaits me.

And somehow, I am thankful for my newfound appreciation for the permanent struggles endured by those who do not have a temporary disabled pass. They inspire me with their resiliency.

Maybe you are like I was, unfamiliar with the trials that consist of their average day.

While I sincerely hope that none of your bones have to break to acquire that insight, I can say that my six weeks of brokenness was a lesson I will not soon forget.