Hello pain. I think I know you...

As many of us do in the mind body world, I have my own story with pain. I've shared it. I've shared how I overcame it. This is a story of how it came back.

As some of you may know, I had a baby (now 18 months ago, which I can barely believe). Her name is Ren and she is....she is....I don't even know what word to put there. But, maybe it's awe. She is awe in my life. But she had a hard start. And thank goodness her name, Ren, means resilient. She needed it. And we needed it too.

About 3 months after the hardest parts of her entry earth side, I reentered my adult life. She was 6 months old, and I was still totally in shock. I remember feeling, so viscerally, "how is everything just the same?? Didn't the world turn upside down?!” But, it hadn't. Just my world had. And I was totally disoriented. To make it work, I got really good at pretending the old world still existed for me. I got really good at holding myself up. I got good at talking to other moms like we shared similar experiences. I got good at sharing our "success story". Later, in therapy, I would call this my "scaffolding". God did I want to be in a puddle on the floor. But, I couldn't. I had to meet the world. I had to hold myself up. I had to go back to being the same me everyone (inclu

ding myself) knew. If not for me, than for my daughter. Right?? But I wasn't the same me I'd always known. I was me, carrying trauma, and fear, and a whole host of hypervigilent strategies I'd never experienced before. I was me, carrying a baby, which is like feeling a piece of yourself outside of yourself and trying to figure out how that even makes sense.

But, I did it. And when people asked, I got good at having a succinct and emotionless canned response:

"Thanks so much for asking! We had a hard start. Ren came early, and was really little, just 3.5 lbs. We were in the NICU for a while. At 3 months she was diagnosed with a congenital heart defect. At 4 months, she had open heart surgery. [pause to make space for their facial expression or response] It was really hard...but she is doing well! And that feels really good. [move on; change subject]"

And then one day I couldn't get that canned statement I said at least a few times a day out of my mouth without feeling like I might hyperventilate...or cry..or maybe even run out of the room to compose myself. Suddenly, something was different.

Interestingly, this came at a time when we were just beginning to believe that Ren was okay. Her last echo looked good. She was off oxygen and medicine to support her heart. She was growing. And just like that, my soft underbelly started to be exposed. My scaffolding wasn't needed (as much) anymore, and, god, was I a wreck.

My sister had a baby. I was sooo happy for her and celebrated. Everyone celebrated. And then I was sick. For literally a week.

I took Ren to daycare. And, as many moms often share, it was uncomfortable to leave her with someone else. But, it wasn't just uncomfortable. I felt sick with dread. It felt like she might die.

It felt like the world was tipping again, but, this time, in a totally different way. I started to be able to notice how "turned off" I was so much of the time. And, when I wasn't turned off, I felt physically ill.

As timing would have it, I went to see my sister right around that time. Wow did I need it. My sister is my best friend and my deepest support. She is the one who holds me and meets me in my intense emotions, and then somehow manages to crack a joke just at the right time to make it all feel better again. But, as timing would also have it, we hit some hiccups (aka real life). My sister had a new baby and a toddler and both her and her husband were (reasonably so) physically, emotionally, and psychologically pushed to their edge. We all got sick. We barely slept. We didn't connect like I know us to connect. And, despite the logic my husband offered around the very reasonable lack of capacity in my family members, I was just so heart broken. So much was I craving support that I left her with what felt like an even bigger hole in my heart. I knew it wasn't her fault. I felt like I was a fragile mess. Why couldn't I handle anything??

And then the pain came. First, intermittently; a day or two a week waking up with mid back pain. Then 4-5 days a week. A month later I was in daily pain. Stiff. I felt like I might crack in two when I sneezed. I could barely sleep past 2 am because the pain was so severe. I couldn't drop my chin even an inch without losing my breath. I found myself thinking about cancer. Maybe it's my pancreas? Maybe I have a tumor in my spine?? The fearful dark thoughts were startling. And they gave me even more opportunity to keep it all in, just keep it all together.

I went to my doctor.

Rule out aortic dissection. Labs. Chest xray

Rule out spinal fracture. Thoracic spine xray. Thoracic and lumbar MRI.

Rule out GI disease (with possible metastases to my spine). Upper endoscopy. Colonoscopy. Biopsies. Labs. Abdominal ultrasound. CT abdomen and pelvis.

I narrowly avoided a panic attack waiting for my abdominal ultrasound results by phoning a friend.

And, through it all, in the back of my mind, a soft voice was telling me it was about support, and that message felt right. But the clinician in me also needed to know I didn't have a major problem. So I did the workup. But, I also called my therapist.

Trauma is an interesting thing. I talk about it all the time. I logically know it means things like "too much, too fast". But, me? I should be strong enough to get through anything without it leaving a mark. And fear? I know about fear. I talk about it all day long! I shouldn't have trouble shifting out of fear once the threat is over.

But, there I was. And my hunch about this being about trauma was becoming more than just a hunch with every negative test.

And then therapy. Therapy offered a space to be heard and held the way I couldn't be in my community. I cried. A lot. I cried curled in a ball on my bed, I cried starring blankly into space, I cried hugging myself, I cried looking out at nature, and I cried the first time I felt just a touch of my own inner strength returning; she had been missing for so long. And then I did it again. And again. I cried for the day I handed my baby over to a nurse knowing full well they were about to cut open her chest while my body screamed "I don't want to do this!!!". I cried when I actually fully realized I'm not meant to be able to carry this all on my own. And I cried when I celebrated with my therapist that I was, even if just a little bit, reaching back out to those who love me and showing them my pain instead of hiding it all under platitudes of "we got through it; we're on the other side".

I started to trust again, myself and others.

I started to feel again, both the good and the hard.

I started to hold myself in self compassion that I really struggled.

And, as you're probably already guessing, my back pain did what my heart knew it would- it went away. Not with a snap of the fingers. But, slowly, over about two months. The first couple of days without pain, I didn't even want to say it out loud for fear it would spike it's ugly head again. But, after a week or so, pain free, I told my husband and my therapist. And after a month, I started to smile when I thought of it, still gone, but it's message loud and clear..

And of course I smiled. Because here I was again, getting an important message from my body that I otherwise was trying to push past. My body, through terrible back pain, reminded me of something that might seem so simple or so banal that we all have seen it in a hallmark card more times than we want to admit- that I need support. And, let me say this as straight forward as I can, knowing it was not the same thing as doing it. Really being supported wasn't a healing strategy I could practice, perfect, and master through shear will, but, rather, a softening into hurt while someone held my hand. I am so grateful to have been led to that doing. I am so grateful I reached out to find a hand to hold.

In my yoga training, we used to say that when something in the subtle body doesn't get the care it needs, it becomes more concrete. What does that mean exactly? It means that an impossible to maintain emotional scaffolding becomes excruciating back pain. It means a need for safety in relationship becomes irritable bowel syndrome. Or it means an impossibly harsh internal voice demanding perfectionism at all costs becomes ankle pain. These are the lessons pain has taught me, personally.

If this story brought you some softness, let it inspire a soft breath and pause. Right here. Right now.

What might your pain be showing you?

What is the soft voice of your intuition saying?

At the heart of it all, our job is to listen. And to care.

This is what mind body medicine means to me.