In the fall of 2024, my body collapsed. Not metaphorically—literally. I couldn’t walk, stand, or place weight on my own two feet without unbearable pain. My body had been whispering for years, and in that moment, it decided to scream.
I was in Mexico, having traveled across the world for two important speaking and teaching engagements. Panic set in. I had a son at home waiting for me. I needed help. And fast.
Doctors filled my hotel room, saying I had exhaustion and acute inflammation. They flooded my system with steroids, painkillers, and muscle relaxers—whatever it took to get me upright and onto a plane. And for the first time in as long as I could remember, my body was quiet.
It was disorienting to feel that much relief. And yet underneath it all was something else: a reckoning. Because in that silence, I was finally able to understand just how much I had been carrying. For decades, my pain and I had been copiloting through life. Now I was on a path to finally gain control.
When I was 16, chronic pain became the main character in my life. I felt it immensely in my back and shoulders, and finding relief felt impossible. I saw a chiropractor, but no other doctors would take my pain seriously. Later, as a young adult, my general practitioner sent me to spine specialists. But again I was dismissed when they could not find anything out of the ordinary.
I felt like the only option was to check out of the system. I had the weight of the world on my shoulders—working two jobs, putting myself through college—and I could feel it. I didn’t have the luxury of time or resources to address what was causing my pain. So, like countless others, it became a private, invisible burden.
It’s important to note how culture impacted my healing journey. I was raised by a single mom who worked nonstop. She was always in pain, as were so many of the women in my family system, going back hundreds of years. And it wasn’t just us—all the Black and Brown women in my community were burdened, tired, and in pain. They worked long hours at taxing jobs then came home to take care of their families, often with little support. It did not occur to me, as a child, that life could look and feel different.
Our emotional experiences as humans impact how our bodies respond to stressors. Yet most healthcare professionals are trained to treat patients based on their documented medical history alone, and not the fuller contexts of their lives and the circumstances of their births. I was stuck in a prison of pain and had to build my own tools to break free.
So I leaned into mindfulness practices, exercise, stretching, meditation, prayer, and somatic work to find holistic relief from my pain. These weren’t “quick fixes”; they were my lifeline. Years of trial and error led me to build a system that could support me, not only helping me feel better physically, but soothing the deeper wounds underneath.
Only recently have researchers begun to confirm what many of us already knew: Chronic pain and autoimmune diseases often appear in patients who have experienced past trauma. A 2018 study found that post-traumatic stress disorder can be associated with the subsequent development of autoimmune conditioners like rheumatoid arthritis, psoriasis, Crohn’s disease, and celiac disease. A systematic review of studies done in 2022 concluded that there is likely a correlation between childhood abuse and multiple sclerosis (MS) in adulthood.
I was uncovering the root causes of my pain that medical professionals are only now beginning to study and name: adverse childhood experiences, over-responsibility, emotional overwhelm, trauma, the chronic stress of navigating a world that wasn’t built with me in mind. Slowly, with care and consistency, I reclaimed my life—traveling, moving, building a career, becoming a mother. But still, that one day in Mexico, my body shut down completely.
It’s not just culture that holds us back from care. Chronic pain is woefully understudied. There was no law requiring that women be included in clinical research until 1993. Today, a mere 32 years later, women are still underrepresented in key clinical trials, and Black women even more so. A 2020 analysis of 32,000 participants in US clinical trials of new drugs found that only 8% were Black. And studies have found that the proportion of Black participants in medical trials is often one third or less of their proportion to the disease burden.
Women are disproportionately diagnosed with autoimmune diseases like lupus and MS, at a rate of two to one with men. Of this group, Black women are even more disproportionately at risk: We are three times more likely to develop lupus than white women. Women are also at a higher risk of suffering from insomnia, long COVID, and irritable bowel syndrome. We are more likely to die from heart disease. We are trained to be martyrs. We are shaped by generations of trauma and resilience that flow through our blood and make us who we are, pain included.
All of that is to say: Our mental, spiritual, and emotional health correlates directly to physical and biological responses. Healing all elements of self is necessary to find physical relief.
After the episode in Mexico, I was forced to reevaluate how I’d been treating my pain. Upon returning home I saw rheumatologists, spine specialists, pain management specialists, podiatrists, psychiatrists, you name it. For the first time I experienced doctors excited and committed to finding a cause. The unknowns of my body fueled their yearning to understand how mental health impacts us.
Today, I am nurturing my body from the moment I wake up. I welcome the medications and therapies my doctors have prescribed me. I also nourish myself with pain creams and stretches, sauna and cold plunge, mediation and prayer. I take the time to devote real time, care, and compassion to myself. The pain has changed form, and I understand it better: I know what causes a flare-up, and how to prevent one as well as treat it.
If you’ve ever felt hopeless on your medical journey, know how many women can relate. Try walking into the doctor’s office with confidence. Equip yourself with data, research, and studies. Learn what helps you face your individual pain. Tell your provider about the Eastern practices you’ve already adopted and share what’s worked and what hasn’t. Look for doctors who are considerate with their patients, asking your consent before weigh-ins or removing clothes. I make it a point to give all my doctors a 360-degree understanding of my past trauma in addition to my medical history. The more we talk about our pain and push for answers, the more we can find community and healing.
Related:
- Venus Williams Opens Up About Her 30-Year Fibroids Journey
- It Took Almost a Decade to Diagnose My Chronic Pain
- What to Do If Your Chronic Illness Is Taking a Toll on Your Mental Health
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