One of my first memories is at the age of two, maybe three. I was playing in a ball pit at a children’s arcade. I had the whole place to myself. But I had fallen, the colorful balls had closed in over my head, and in my little girl confusion, I thought I couldn’t breathe. I remember struggling, my hands and feet slipping out from under me. And then I remember realizing, “I’m okay. I can breathe even though I can’t see. This is not water; I’m not drowning. I can take as long as I need. I will get myself out of here.” And I did. I laid there, calming myself down so I could get my body to cooperate and then, of course, got myself out of the ball pit.

I grew up in a fog of abuse and neglect.

Mental illness, narcissism, hoarding, manufactured poverty, religious trauma, very little schooling. We were extremely socially isolated, sometimes spending weeks at home in the woods without seeing anyone but my immediate family. I learned, even before the incident in the ball pit, to be small, sweet, and smart. Don’t ask for anything. Control yourself. Don’t let yourself get too tired–or your emotions and needs will get too big, slip out, and cause more pain. And oh, those adaptive, even if symptom-fueling, skills protected me for so long.

My first experience of neuroplastic symptoms were recurring UTIs in early childhood that couldn’t be medically explained despite invasive testing, followed soon by chronic hives, then migraines that began before I was even ten. When I was twenty-one, I found myself confounding the doctors with my costochondritis (unexplained rib pain) and wrist pain. First one wrist, and then the other, pain radiating up my arms. I began by getting all the tests and seeing all the specialists. But when they couldn’t help me and the pain spread around my body, my diagnosis shifted to fibromyalgia. At that point, I decided I was done chasing answers. I would probably slowly get worse, but I would live a life giving my symptoms only as much attention as absolutely necessary. I needed to be small, even in pain. 

I had always loved hard work, getting out of my house, and learning new things. So I worked full time starting on my 16th birthday. With encouragement from friends and coworkers, I found myself completing my GED and then enrolling in college. It took a couple extra years as I got my feet under me, catching up on things I hadn’t learned yet and figuring out what I wanted to study, but I finished my degrees. I got married, I had two kids, I worked some, and I volunteered a lot. I traveled, I practiced yoga, I learned to paint watercolor. My life continued to get bigger, while yes, my symptoms gradually got worse. I delayed having a second child because my first pregnancy was so rough. I found my symptoms were worse when I was still, so I stayed in motion. But I gave up skiing, and I walked distances only at great physical cost.

In the slowdown after the scariest season of the pandemic had passed, I began working with a trauma-informed therapist. I learned about nervous system regulation, IFS/inner child work, and self-compassion. And thanks to social media algorithms, I stumbled upon yoga with Dani Fagan. Even those online classes could leave me in pain for days. Dani had us in bear pose one time, intentionally letting ourselves feel anger in our bodies–and I paid for weeks. There was no way a static pose caused my neck that much tension and pain, so even then I understood that my system was reacting to anger. It wasn’t until she shared a podcast with mindbody physician, Dr. Howard Schubiner, that I learned that my body did not have to hurt. I did not have to hurt when I used my body, when I rested, or when I felt emotion.

I remember listening to that podcast and thinking, “This is me.”

“This explains my whole life. This explains my mother’s and my siblings’ chronic pain. This explains it all!” On that foundation of already giving up on doctors having answers for me and that year of trauma healing, I jumped in with both feet. I began with Dr. Schubiner’s workbook, building my belief and exploring the connections between fear, symptoms, and emotions. From there, I jumped into JournalSpeak to continue my reflective practice and build my relationship with myself. For me, the fear was the first thing to go. There was nothing wrong with my body? Emotional and physical pain are not dangerous? I know it’s not everyone’s experience, but this part was easy for me. I could feel the truth in these messages. 

I’m making it sound tidy and quick. That’s not a fair description…not at all. It’s been several years since I heard that podcast episode. Several years of regular journaling. Like peeling back endless layers, I slowly learn more about who I am. That fog of abuse and neglect that had robbed me of presence for forty years began to lift. The sense of self that I never got to develop? She’s in there! The calm knowing of intuition? She’s there, too. I am a deeply emotional and complex person who thought she ran on logic and was not needy? My gosh, hello. There for a while, as my capacity to hold my emotions slowly expanded through daily practice, I felt like I was drowning again. I can’t breathe. I can’t see. I had opened a box that would not be closed, and these long-abandoned parts of me were screaming to be heard. It was not tidy or quick. But I leaned on self-compassion. I leaned on nervous system regulation. I leaned on daily mindbody practices.

What about my symptoms?

They have slowly faded. I am much more physically active–without major pain flairs, even when skiing, which I’ve done every winter since hearing that podcast. Those recurring excruciating knots in my shoulders are gone. The migraines don’t bother even trying more than once a year. Gluten and I are friends again after almost a decade thinking we were enemies. I’m happily settled at minimal pain, living a life where my symptoms now point me to where my needs are not being met. To where I need to slow down, to where I need boundaries, to where I need more connection. And the gains in my relationship with myself and most others have made me a walking example of Nicole Sachs’ explanation that “the symptoms are the biggest, littlest part.” If I could convince everyone, regardless of chronic symptoms, to practice these tools, I would. What a world we could create inside ourselves and out.

I’ve been up to a lot in the years since learning about neuroplastic symptoms.

I have trained in several modalities, including PRT, the Sarno x Sachs Solution, and EAET. At first, I took these courses to help myself and now, I use these skills to also help others. I have moderated several support groups for those with neuroplastic symptoms. Now I run a Facebook group called “Living the Work: Mindbody Connection” with my dear friends and colleagues, Kat Gemsen and Phil de la Haye. I launched a twice monthly newsletter in the spring of 2024 where I share my experience and the practices that have served me so well. And I’ve gradually worked toward offering my own coaching and courses.

So we come full circle, back to toddler me in that ball pit, stuck on my back and so afraid. When I think about the biggest gift this work has given me, it’s easy. This work pointed me back to myself. Mindbody experts are whispering, often yelling, from the sidelines, “You aren’t drowning! Breathe! Take as long as you need. You will get yourself out of here.” In this work, I save myself, even as I cheer you on. I love sharing these tools with you. I learn right beside you. Please remember that this work is your’s. You can ask for help when you need it, but at its foundation, you need the knowledge, the consistency of practice–and yourself. Your knowing, your curiosity, your growing self-compassion.

I, too, continue to remind you from the sidelines, “You will get yourself out of here.”

Do you want support in tailoring this approach to your personal experience? Consider working with me. And come join us for connection and conversation in our Facebook group.