I got the wind knocked out of me a couple of times this year.
I have two avenues of thought on the matter.
Down the brightly-lit, Royal palm-lined Avenue A is the notion that the pain is a reflection of effort, and therefore evidence of growth and progress. Take your lumps and all that.
Meanwhile, I hear a low whistle coming from the shambly, Now & Later wrapper littered, single-wide trailer-rowed and graveled Avenue B that says I am just not paying attention. Crashes are the fruit of bad choices, crooked lines, and hesitating in that crease where things either go bad wrong or so right.
Either way I’m sick of the bruises.