Pain With A Purpose

Living with chronic pain is like carrying an invisible boulder on your back—one that no one else can see, but you feel with every breath, every step, every attempt to live a “normal” life.

It didn’t hit me all at once. At first, it was something I could handle—a dull ache that came and went, something I could ignore or push through. But gradually, it got more noticeable, more persistent—in my head, my joints, my neck, my spine, and often everywhere. It started to chip away at my life. Sleep got restless. Hanging out with friends became exhausting. Laughing felt strange. My body, which I depended on, became unpredictable. Some mornings, I’d wake up and wouldn’t even know how bad it would be until I tried to stand up.

Doctors became a rotating cast of faces—some kind, some dismissive. Drugs and Alcohol long lost their effect. I learned the language of scans, tests, insurance codes. I learned to advocate for myself in sterile rooms under fluorescent lights. I became fluent in the subtle art of pretending I was okay when I wasn’t. Smiling through gritted teeth. Nodding through conversations when my brain was fogged with pain.

The hardest part wasn’t the physical agony—though that could be breathtaking in its cruelty—it was the loneliness. Chronic pain isolates. People stop asking how you’re doing after a while. They get tired of hearing the same answer. And honestly, you get tired of giving it. So you start lying. “I’m good.” “It’s not too bad today.” You start to disappear behind your own eyes.

And yet—life doesn’t stop. You still have to work, show up for your family, play your gigs, pay the bills, wash the dishes. Pain doesn’t pause for birthdays, holidays, or deadlines. It doesn’t care if you’ve had enough.

 A lot of the time, life feels like I’m walking it alone. Not in a sad, dramatic way—just real. Me, my thoughts, my feelings. My past. The way my chest tightens when I think about the things I never said - or things I've overstated. The way I sometimes crave silence but feel crushed by it when it shows up.

There are moments when I find peace in it. Like, actually feel wonder in the stillness. I get to meet myself there. I see parts of me I forgot were even there—soft, strong, wild, broken, whole. It’s honest.

But there are other moments too. When the loneliness creeps in quiet but heavy. When the old ghosts knock, asking to be fed. And I have to choose.

That’s the thing—I do have a choice. Not always, but when I do, I try to choose what doesn’t hurt me. What pulls me forward. I’ll sit with the darkness, but only long enough to remember I’ve survived it before. Long enough to feel my courage stretch out from the bones. Because if I stay there too long, I lose myself. The void starts whispering like it knows me. And I have to remember—it doesn’t.

That’s when I turn back to the divine. To whatever is bigger than me but still somehow of me. That’s where I remember I’m not actually alone. Not really. That’s where I breathe again.

But here’s the strange thing: pain taught me resilience. Not the glamorous kind, but the quiet, gritty kind. The kind that keeps going even when there’s no end in sight. I found beauty in small things—moments of relief, deep breaths, a hot bath, a laugh that catches me off guard. I learned to listen to my body, to honor its limits without hating it. Some days are still hell. But I’ve stopped measuring my worth by my productivity, stopped waiting for someone else to validate what I’m going through. There's no fanfare. Living with chronic pain is an act of endurance, of defiance. And I’m still here.

I’m beginning to understand that my pain is not separate from my purpose—it is my purpose. It’s the measure of my commitment, the proof of my discipline, and the silent testament to the man I’ve chosen to become. I’m starting to feel a certain peace within the struggle—not the peace of comfort, but the peace that comes from knowing my suffering is not in vain. It has meaning. It has purpose.