Ten Years of Pain: The Journey Home to Myself – Part 1

As a chronic pain recovery coach, I didn’t come to my calling by accident. In fact, I expect it’s rare that any of us do.

It was through lived experience, and a deep and personal understanding of myself and my pain, that things finally unfolded in the most beautiful and surprising way.

Today, I work with clients daily, helping them navigate their way back out of pain. I listen to their stories and I am constantly humbled by their experiences, their strength and their courage. Recently, I realised that, until now, I haven’t really told my own story in any great detail.

So here it is.

Nothing spectacular, you might say. But no less miraculous for that.

I was born in Essex, England, in the 1970s, growing up in a modest part of town. Nonetheless, I never wanted for anything. I had a loving family environment, a home with good humour and laughter at its core, and a myriad of pets to keep us occupied. We had everything from terrapins and rabbits to six cats and, at one point, three… or maybe even four dogs!

When I introduce myself to clients, I often say my pain story lasted ten years. Well, the chronic pain did. But when I started exploring the different mind-body symptoms I’d experienced throughout my life, I realised the story actually began much earlier.

As a child, I had allergies. One affected my nose and another affected my tummy. And when I say tummy, I mean really horrible stomach pain. I remember being tested and eventually being told to steer clear of food colouring.

Oh, come on, Doc.

This was the 1980s. Everything was neon coloured, including most of the foods kids loved! What a misery.

Looking back now, with the knowledge I have about the mind-body connection, I’ve started to piece together where some of these protective symptoms may have originated. One significant event stands out.

I moved schools at the age of eight.

Please don’t underestimate the impact something like that can have on a developing mind and nervous system. I still remember my dad dropping me off on that first day. I remember feeling completely overwhelmed with fear and, yes, bursting into tears as he left.

Like many of us, I was a child of contrasts. On the outside, I appeared pretty confident. On the inside, there was always a sensitive shyness. A lot of worries. A lot of anxiety. A lot of fears.

Those traits stayed with me over the years. My confident mask got me to places I never dreamed possible, but it would seem it came at a cost to my health and happiness.

But we’ll come to that part shortly.

I wasn’t the most academic child, but what I lacked in natural attainment, I more than made up for in effort. Boy, did I. If there was a trophy to be won, I wanted it. If there was a certificate to collect, I was there. I loved tangible proof that I’d done well.

Looking back, that should probably have been a clue.

What I didn’t realise at the time was how much of my self-worth was becoming tied to achievement.

Then I discovered performing arts, and everything changed.

It became a beautiful outlet for my outward confidence and I was completely captivated by music and singing, a passion that has remained with me throughout my life.

Fast forward to the late 1990s.

All I wanted to do was sing. But being me, and with nothing ever feeling quite good enough, I decided not only that I wanted to sing, but that I should try and get into one of the most prestigious music schools in the world.

The Royal Academy of Music.

And somehow…

I did.

I was offered a place in the class of 1999.

Little brown ponytail swishing, this home girl from Essex packed her bags and moved to London. I was absolutely on cloud nine.

I found myself surrounded by extraordinary talent. From every room came the most incredible sounds. Instruments I’d never even seen before, let alone heard played live. It was magical.

Despite my happiness, however, life was already beginning to send me messages that I didn’t yet understand.

One day during rehearsals, I felt a twinge in my back that sent me crashing to the floor.

Hello, back pain.

This was your first starring role.

The pain came and went. Then it appeared again while I was performing in panto. Naturally, I blamed the uneven stage.

What else could it possibly be?

Around the same time, my beloved parents were going through a divorce. I was absolutely bereft.

If you’re joining the dots for me already, well done.

Not long afterwards, my back went into spasm one afternoon while I was at work. This time, I ended up in A&E somewhere in a rather murky part of London. I was examined, told it was “just a spasm”, given some pain relief and sent on my way.

At this point, I’d made the decision not to pursue theatrical contracts. Instead, I was going to become a responsible grown-up and get a “proper” job.

At exactly the same time, my mum had moved to South Africa.

There was a huge amount of change taking place. A huge amount of emotional charge. A huge amount of uncertainty.

Knowing what I know now, I can see that my back pain was a message from my brain and nervous system. An alarm bell telling me that emotionally and mentally, all was not well.

But I hadn’t yet learned its language.

I didn’t receive the message.

So I did what I’d always done.

I pushed on.

I worked harder.

I carried on regardless.

And in doing so, I unknowingly set the stage for the next chapter of my story.

To be continued………make sure to read my up and coming second chapter!