Learning to Bend Without Breaking

Back in February, my lower back decided it was done being a team player. One wrong twist, one bad move, or maybe just too many years of mom life, car seats, laundry baskets, and stress. Then boom: a herniated disc at L5-S1.

At first, the pain was manageable. I did my physical therapy like a good patient. Tried two steroid injections over the summer. I stretched, iced, and bribed my spine with promises of rest days I had no actual intention of keeping. But by August, things went south. Fast. The nerve pain shot from my lower back all the way down the back of my left leg into my foot, which stayed in a constant state of pins-and-needles misery.

Sitting made everything worse. So I stood. All. Day. Long. Folding laundry standing up, eating meals standing up, working from my kitchen counter. It’s exhausting to be in pain 24/7, but standing through it all? That’s a special kind of hell.

By the end of summer, I was walking with a cane, looking like I’d aged forty years overnight. I couldn’t play with my kids. I couldn’t sit in the car without crying. Even the simple stuff like loading the dishwasher, making dinner, and folding towels felt like scaling Mount Everest with a taser strapped to my leg.

And then came the insurance battle.

When my doctor first recommended surgery, I thought that would finally be the light at the end of the tunnel. Instead, I got a master class in how broken our healthcare system really is. My insurance company decided my pain wasn’t “urgent enough.” Apparently, the only way to fast-track approval was to lose control of my bowels or bladder. Yup, that was the golden ticket. Never thought I’d wake up thinking, "Well, maybe today’s the day I shit my pants and finally get help."

I was angry. I was scared. And I was so, so tired. But I refused to back down. My doctor appealed. I called. I emailed. I channeled all my pain and fury into being the squeakiest wheel in the healthcare system. And finally, finally, they approved it.

Surgery day came in mid-October. I was equal parts terrified and relieved. I didn’t even care that they were about to slice into my spine. I just wanted the pain to stop. When I woke up in recovery, groggy and high on anesthesia, my first thought was: "It’s over. Maybe now I can breathe again."

Recovery hasn’t been easy. Turns out, you don’t just hop off the operating table and start doing cartwheels. I’ve had to relearn patience. (Spoiler: I suck at patience.) I’ve had to accept help, which is basically torture for someone who prides herself on doing everything. I’ve had to sit still, something I physically couldn’t do before, and emotionally still struggle with now.

But I’m healing. Slowly, awkwardly, sometimes painfully, but healing.

Pain changes you. It humbles you. It strips away the bullshit you thought mattered and forces you to focus on what actually does. Like your kids’ laughter, your partner’s quiet support, and the ability to put on your own socks without tears.

There are still hard days. I still get twinges that make me panic. I still have moments when I feel guilty for all the times I was short with my family when the pain was unbearable. But now, there’s hope in the mix too.

This experience has made me fiercely protective of my body and my boundaries. It’s made me question the insanity of a healthcare system that puts profit before people. And it’s reminded me( painfully and profoundly) that sometimes, the only way out is through.

If you’ve ever been in that place where your body betrays you, where pain becomes your constant companion and bureaucracy your worst enemy, I see you. You’re not weak. You’re not dramatic. You’re surviving something that would break most people.

And someday soon, when I’m back to chasing my kids, sitting through a car ride without crying, and walking through Disney World with nothing but joy (and maybe a back brace), I’ll know that all the standing, all the fighting, all the shit-your-pants-worthy moments were worth it.

Because I didn’t let the pain, or the paperwork, win.