What’s the worst thing about falls?

Since the launch of memoir Fallosophy (March, 2025), I’ve fallen three times. Not metaphorically. Literally. On the ground. Boom.

My first fall happened just a few hours before the Fallosophy launch party. Because of course it did. Ard-dramatically. While getting ready for my big night I tripped on air then landed face first (then bicep, then shoulder somehow) into the front hall closet.

Nothing to see here

While I’ve been known to cause myself a fracture or two (okay, three), most of my falls (so far) haven’t been catastrophic. I’m fine. If you don’t count the bruises to my enormous ego, which, obviously, I do.

The reaction to falls can sometimes suck as much as falls themselves. I once tumbled out of an Uber and yelled, “I’M FINE!” with big don’t-look-at-me energy because I didn’t fall hard enough to knock myself unconscious. Fully alert to gawking strangers rushing to help, I wanted to crawl under the car and stay there just to avoid the embarassement.

Why are falls so humiliating?

The cultural narrative around falls is thus:

Waterfalls: good (Instagram gold, nature is pretty)

Falling in love: probably okay (you lost your mind, but endorphins + it’s temporary)

Falling for a scam: definitely bad (you’re naive, stupid and/or old)

Falling down: obviously the worst (you’re drunk and/or clumsy, incompetent, frail, you also fall for scams)

A feature of falls is loss of control, and in a culture that prizes poise and composure, falls lack dignity. Repeated falls can be interpreted as proof that the faller in question isn’t fit to look after themselves.

Falls are startling. Suddenly you crash to the ground and the room goes silent. It’s called making a scene. You can’t expect the masses to take this kind of spectacle in stride. No. Falls demand a reaction, of which there are only two options: pity or laughter. Either way, the faller (usually me) experiences a loss of status both physically and metaphorically.

Falling literally puts you in a vulnerable position, on the ground, looking up the noses and skirts of the un-messy gravity-respecting adults around you. Falls can be demoralizing. Cue humiliation.

So, when are falls funny?

The element of surprise can make falls seem funny. A sudden rupture in the status quo can provoke laughter, at least until empathy kicks in. In 2020, The New York Post ran a story with the headline: Man Knocked Unconscious By Falling Cat While Walking Dog, and you don’t need to see the footage to know that shit’s hilarious.

Falls remind us that bodies are absurd. When someone’s legs suddenly fly out from under them it exposes the uncomfortable reality that we’re all one banana peel away from the grave. And when someone pops up unharmed, the relief of averting disaster can trigger laughter. Which is probably why most of my falls no longer generate laughs. Even a rando can tell there’s a real chance I might be hurt. Lately, when I hit the ground, I’m more likely to say, “Just let me lay here a while”, than to ask for help. When my third post-Fallosophy fall happened this past Monday I asked The Banker to bring me a pillow.

Fallosophy comes out and I have three falls in less than three months. Am I manifesting this shit?

While everyone else is trying to make sense of how I ended up on the ground, I am also trying to CSI how each of my falls is my fault.

My most recent tumble happened while I was using one cane instead of my usual two because I was carrying a copy of my book, Fallosophy, and needed a hand free. So yeah, I might be bringing some method acting to my book tour.

I feel like a fuck-up when I fall

Three falls in 70 days is a lot, even for someone who has made a career out of making friends with the floor. Every time I fall I tell myself I can prevent future falls by deciding not to fall. But that’s not how falling works.

I’m not here to defend myself, not entirely. Maybe I’ve been on the receiving end of some overreactions, but the people who worry about me have a point. I need to figure out how to, if not stop falling completely (let’s be real), fall better, fall less.

Remember: you can always make things worse

Years of living with MS have taught me that an uptick in falls might mean I’m (over)due for an upgrade to my mobility aid situation. My PT, Paula, tried to break it to me gently: I’m sorry to say but I don’t think you can get by with one cane anymore. No duh. I don’t object or disagree, but I resent that I have to figure out a new way to transport my coffee.

I get knocked down

Sometimes it’s not the fall that’s the hardest part–it’s the getting back up. This probably applies to life in general, but for now let’s focus on the literal. Accepting that falls are part of my reality means planning ahead. PT Paula has added getting-up-off-the-floor practice to my physiotherapy sessions. I’m working on perfecting a backwards, bum-up routine that gives me a reason to lift weights because for all three of my recent falls I was not able to get up on my own. fml

Knowing I may fall on any given day now informs my morning routine. My standard Zoom look (business on top, unkempt recluse from the waist down) no longer feels safe when there’s a chance the fire department might have to swing by and save me. I’ve cultivated enough anxiety about my hypothetical rescue to prioritize brushing my hair. I put deodorant on EVERY DAY whether I think I need to or not. If I’m feeling particularly unsteady I’ll add a spritz of perfume and run the robot vacuum. Nobody wants to be rescued in the sweaty t-shirt they slept in.

We all fall down

If, like me, you too are a falls risk, remember that mobility isn’t a pre-requisite for dignity. Balance isn’t a moral achievement. Falling isn’t failure. Falling proves we’re still moving, negotiating gravity in a body that failed physics. We get back up. We do the best we can.

Stay upright, Trippers. And if you can’t, may your step-stool be near and your bra already on.

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