If you're in pain right now, I want to offer you a perspective that changed everything for me.
But first, something important to understand. When pain pays a visit, it can be a sign of an inner conflict living somewhere in the system. I call it an inner war. Yes, an inner war, or a resistance to reality. Anything that creates friction with life. And yes, its source can be different for everyone. In Conversation with pain I offer a way to search for yours, but here I want to tell you my story. Because sometimes a perspective is the first thing that needs to shift.
I was a dancer and an acrobat. Movement was my life, my familiar place and also my comfort zone. For years I pushed my body past its limits and the loop was always the same: push, injure, recover, repeat. I thought that was just the price of loving something deeply.
Until one day my body said enough. The pain started in my lower back, then moved to my neck and knees, to my tailbone and from there it traveled through my whole body, until one day I couldn't get out of bed without groaning. Some would call it fibromyalgia.
What I didn't understand then was that no one had ever taught me how to love my body unconditionally. I knew how to use it. But loving it or listening to it was a different language altogether. And before that is even possible, we need to clear our inner wars so that love can actually reach us.
My turning point came when an experienced therapist said to me during a session: "If you want to treat your pain, you have to work on your emotions."
Until that moment, I believed pain was something physical, something you fix with the right treatment, the right hands, the right technique. I hadn't considered that my body and my mind were even connected. And even though I already knew that healing comes from within, there was something quieter underneath: a hidden belief that something outside would save me. And on top of that, several patterns were living quietly beneath the pain. One of them was a belief that "I was not enough", which made me push harder, always. Another was a fear that "I wouldn't be loved" or "accepted as I am", which kept me constantly trying to change, to resist, to perform. My nervous system was overstimulated.
The pain in my body was holding the emotional weight that I hadn't yet looked at directly.
Pain can be a messenger. And what it's pointing toward can be beautiful.
So here is what I want to offer you. An invitation to get curious about your pain instead of fighting it. Even in the smallest nuances.
What if you approached it the way you'd approach someone new you wanted to get to know, with questions, patience and curiosity? What if instead of asking how do I get rid of this, you asked: what are you trying to tell me?
That shift changed not just how I related to pain, but how I lived. I gradually changed the people around me, the way I move, my work and more. And from that different place, the pain reduced.
I still dance a lot. And it's been a long time since I was seriously injured. Because I learned to listen. To my pace, to my body, to when to rest. Quality over intensity. Yes, pain still pays a visit sometimes. But now when it arrives, I don't always call it pain. Sometimes it's just a sensation asking for attention. And I know how to meet it.
Choosing a different relationship with pain. One that might, slowly, change everything. You don't have to do this alone. But you can start right now, exactly where you are.