Ever feel stuck? Low Back Pain is Draining me…
It’s a question I find myself asking more and more—not just in passing, but in the quiet, heavy moments that follow the things that matter most.
I live with chronic low back pain—debilitating, constant, 24/7. Most days when I’m home, I wear what I call my “ice belt.” It’s exactly what it sounds like—ice, all day, every day. I don’t even know if that’s healthy anymore. Maybe it just masks the pain. Lately I even wear it ou in the world, but it doesn’t last too long. Maybe it’s the only thing that gets me through the day. Either way, it’s become part of my routine… part of survival.
And yet, yesterday, I lived a dream.
I had the honor of speaking and advocating for Parkinson’s disease awareness—in memory of my mother, Sharon—at the County Commission. I stood there not just for her, but for every person battling Parkinson’s today, and for every family walking that road alongside them. In that moment, there was purpose. There was strength. There was love. There was a mission that felt bigger than anything I carry physically. It was hours and hours through waiting and siting.
We need a cure for Parkinson’s. That belief drives me every single day.
But today… is different.
Today, the pain is the worst it’s ever been.
This is the part people don’t always see. The cost. The aftermath. The sacrifice. I push myself beyond limits because I care—because I don’t want anyone else to go through what my mom did, or to carry the kind of loss that never really leaves. Six years later, I still grieve. I always will.
But my body keeps score.
Every event, every trip, every moment of showing up—it comes with a price. When I get home, the pain doesn’t just return… it lingers, sometimes for months. And now, I’ve hit a wall. I’ve tried everything. Treatments, procedures, options that once felt hopeful. What’s left feels like a stalemate: try a spinal stimulator again with a different doctor, or remove the hardware entirely—knowing it could make things even worse.
So I live in between those choices.
Every morning at 48, there are days I can’t even get out of bed without a battle. And yet, I will not stop advocating for a Parkinson’s cure. That part of me is unshakable.
But I’d be lying if I said I’m not questioning how long I can keep showing up the way I have been. Live events mean everything to me—because this community is family. Real, powerful, connected in ways that only shared struggle can create.
But at what point do you acknowledge the toll?
At what point do you admit you feel… stuck?
That’s the question I wrestle with. Because I would sacrifice anything for a cure. I mean that. But the penalties I pay afterward are real, and they’re hard to explain—sometimes even harder to say out loud.
Maybe being “stuck” isn’t about giving up.
Maybe it’s about standing in that space between purpose and pain, and still choosing, somehow, to move forward—even if that movement looks different than before.
I don’t have the answer yet.
But I’m still here. Still fighting. Still hoping.
And maybe, for today, that’s enough.