Yes, it hurts.
And I don’t know what I did wrong.
That terrible back pain makes my body lean like the Tower of Pisa. And again, I find myself saying goodbye to the few exercises I had just managed to build into my life again.
It feels surreal. Once upon a time, I could spend hours in the gym, moving from lesson to lesson, sweating through workouts I loved. Even after my first Covid infection, when the symptoms of Long Covid came crashing in, I managed—slowly—to rebuild some stamina. I held on to that hope. Movement was always my safe place.
Now, exercise feels like walking a tightrope. One step too far, and my body crashes. Was it the short workout that broke me this time? Did I overdo it? Or are my muscles simply still too weak after years of being forced into stillness?
Maybe it wasn’t the exercises at all. Maybe it was something as simple—and ridiculous—as my shoes. Most of my heels have been gathering dust in the closet for the past 5.5 years, ever since my body said no more. My only pain-free companions have been Birkenstocks in the summer, and Asics or Lowa boots in the winter. But that Saturday, when the rain started to pour, I stood in front of the mirror, dress on, not knowing what to wear.
So I slipped into boots with heels I hadn’t worn in years. My toe felt broken, forcing me to limp. Could that misstep have triggered the chain reaction in my back?
This is the reality I live with: small decisions that others never think about—what shoes to wear, how far to walk, whether to do one set of exercises—can mean the difference between a normal day and days of pain and exhaustion.
And yet, I’m reminded of something that happened at the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam. The day this backpain stuck me by surprise. I could barely move my legs that day; the pain had struck on my way there. But then I saw a statue. For a moment, I forgot the heaviness in my body. His welcoming eyes lit something inside me. It brought me joy.
Later, I put it into words:
It was as if he invited me in.
His eyes were so welcoming,
while he looked into a ray of sun
that came through the window.
That was all I needed
after a long journey
where I suddenly got back pain
and had a hard time to walk.
As if my legs couldn’t carry me anymore.
I sat down on the end of the stairs
around the corner,
before I walked towards him.
He didn’t know it was not him
I visited this wing of an enormous building.
Yet, when my eyes met his,
I knew I did a great job.
Even if I was in a lot of pain.
No one there knew,
and no one saw,
what I was hiding.
I didn’t tell him either.
I just enjoyed.
I smiled.
This was Ajita, a Luohan.
A guardian of silence and wisdom.
In his presence,
I forgot my pain for a moment.
And just like Ajita listens deeply to the sutras, I was reminded to listen deeply to my own body. This is what Radical Remission has taught me too — that even in the silence of illness, there are whispers of wisdom guiding us towards healing and wholeness.
And yet, in the middle of this frustration, I thought of two of the Radical Remission factors:
✨ Listening to my intuition — my body whispers before it screams. If I pause long enough, I can hear the message: slow down, adjust, don’t push.
✨ Increasing positive movement — movement doesn’t have to mean deadlifts, long runs, or heels. It can be gentle stretches, a mindful walk to the park bench, or even the way I breathe into my belly while lying down. It’s not about how far I go, but about moving with kindness.
I don’t know if I’ll ever slip into my heels again without fear. But I do know this: every setback is also a teacher. And if I listen closely, I might just find that my body is showing me the path forward—one careful, compassionate step at a time.
💡 And maybe this is the real lesson: if you’re facing setbacks of your own, pause for a moment. Ask yourself:
- What is my body (or intuition) whispering to me right now?
- What’s one small, kind movement I can choose today that feels supportive instead of punishing?
Sometimes the smallest step — or even the decision to rest — is the bravest form of movement.