Hey, Hey!
Life with a leaky spine isn’t exactly the story I thought I’d be writing, but here we are anyway. Welcome back to my corner of the internet, where I can confirm it is absolutely not just a headache, honey!
If the past two years have taught me anything, it’s this: feel the fear and do it anyway.
Going back to work …
Going back to work was all I’d pleaded to be able to do since October 2023, yet when the day finally came, I was definitely feeling the fear. I’d had more than enough spare time, thanks to the countless hours spent in a hospital bed, to create a rose-tinted version of how my return to work would play out.
Now, four weeks into my grand return, I think it’s time to admit my body is slowly edging toward the corner where I can no longer deny the difficulties that come with trying to meet societal norms.
The gradual decline (or worsening) of my symptoms hasn’t gone unnoticed by some of my friends. “You look tired,” they say. “You look pale.” And while that’s not untrue, what 99% of people see is only the tiniest snapshot of a much larger picture.
The hidden reality …
I’ve thought about writing this post so many times over the past few weeks, only to delete every word. People are used to me being upbeat, comedic, and sarcastic about my situation, and while that’s true, it’s not the whole truth. People call me brave for getting on with things, but to me, that isn’t bravery. It’s simply not having a choice. Being called brave can actually make things harder because it creates this illusion that what you’re going through can’t really be that bad.
Stepping back into the classroom, I wasn’t the same person I was two years ago. My energy levels had become precious, and my days of bouncing around school were long gone. I’d spent my first three years of teaching figuring out my (sometimes unconventional) style, only to now feel like I was right back on my first day as an NQT.
What it’s really like …
The first week back wasn’t too bad. Naturally, I approached it the only way I knew how, like a bull in a china shop. Unsurprisingly, that’s where the elation started and ended. I was so high on the joy of being back in the classroom for two full days that the adrenaline was still flooding my system on Saturday, luring me into a false sense of security.
That’s the problem though, the higher you are, the further you fall.
By Sunday, that illusion shattered. Within thirty minutes of getting out of bed, I was right back in it, tears rolling down my cheeks as that rose-tinted reality dissolved in front of me. My head hurt in a way that’s hard to explain, the same, yet different. The intensity was worse than usual, likely from the sudden increase in upright hours. My neck throbbed, and the pain in my spine felt like electric shocks (or what I imagine electric shocks would feel like, not that I’ve tested that theory!).
So that was that. Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday were spent confined to bed, aside from brief trips to the bathroom.
A side quest of spiralling …
Unhelpfully, that left me far too much time to think. Despite the unwavering company of Olivia Benson and Elliot Stabler (Netflix, I need all the seasons, please), it was impossible not to overanalyse every second of those two classroom days. Was there a specific trigger? Something I did wrong? Hours of mental replaying led nowhere, which meant when Thursday rolled around, I had no idea what to avoid doing.
By Wednesday, the pain had eased slightly, maybe a 7 out of 10. Alarmingly high, I know, but with chronic pain you learn to tolerate higher levels because you have no other choice. A drop from 10 to 7 feels like relief. You get out of bed, and people assume that means you’re fine. It couldn’t be more inaccurate. The symptoms were still there, just dulled enough to move again.
Before I knew it, Thursday arrived, and I was heading back to work.
Accumulating pain …
Weeks two, three, and four came with progressively worse aftermaths. The pain wasn’t settling anymore, it was staying worse, and that was scary. My head pain had intensified to the same level that had previously landed me in hospital. My neck was stiff and hard to move. My arms felt like someone had attached 100kg weights to them and sprinkled pins and needles on top.
It was a lot to deal with, and honestly, I didn’t know how. At first, I said nothing. I cried quietly in bed when my dad wasn’t around. I pretended to be asleep to avoid conversations. And when we did talk, I brushed it off with my usual, “It’ll be fine, it’ll settle down.”
As I write this, I can already hear the doubters: “Well, if it was that bad, you’d have said something there and then …”
I wish it were that simple …
I wish it were that simple. Truly.
The thing is, when something not normal happens to you, it triggers one of three responses: fight, flight, or freeze. Rational thinking disappears because experiences like this are laced with trauma.
I’ve listened to a lot of podcasts since becoming ill, but one in particular really stuck with me, Mariska Hargitay on Alex Cooper’s Call Her Daddy podcast. She said:
“There is no timeline for when to speak out, or when it’s okay to speak out. There is no right or wrong time to do it. You speak up when you are ready. Anybody who questions when you speak up lacks basic understanding.
I couldn’t process that I couldn’t get out of it, and that lived in me. I blamed myself.
Be patient and be gentle with yourself. Listen. Listen to that inner voice. When you are still enough to listen to it, it has all the answers. You already have everything you need. You already have it inside of you.”
They were talking about something very different, but when I say those words struck me to the core, I’m not exaggerating.
You never said …
In the past 22 months, I’ve heard the phrase “you never said…” more times than I’ve been admitted to hospital. And I started to blame myself. But in truth, I shouldn’t. What I was really experiencing was denial. I wasn’t ready to face what was, and is, happening to my body.
Yes, my worsening symptoms needed to be spoken about, because nobody else could see them. But those symptoms are so much more than what they appear on the surface.
All I wanted …
All I’d wanted since that first hospital admission was to stand at the front of a classroom again. Yet with every passing week, it started to feel like that leap was inching further and further out of reach.
That’s where looking beyond the surface really matters, because the issue isn’t whether I can manage two days in the classroom. The real issue is the damage caused by each worsening flare-up across the five days I’m not there.
Barely making a dent …
I can say “my head hurts,” “my neck hurts,” or “I feel sick,” but those words barely make a dent anymore. They’ve become white noise. And that’s where the self-guilt creeps in, when I start overanalysing every second of those two workdays, wondering if I did something wrong, if there’s one tiny moment I can point to as the cause of yet another flare-up.
The truth is, I don’t have all the answers yet. I’m still learning how to balance what my mind wants and what my body can give. I’m still figuring out how to exist in a world that doesn’t slow down when you do.
Some days …
Some days, I feel strong. Other days, I feel like I’m held together by caffeine, sarcasm, and sheer stubbornness. But both versions of me are valid, and both deserve grace.
Returning to work was never going to be the finish line, it’s just another chapter in a story I never planned to write. And that’s okay.
And while I’m still figuring out when I’ll be ready to speak up, ready to share, and ready to admit the truth, there’s comfort in knowing that when I do, it’ll be because it’s right for me, and not because I’ve been backed into a corner by doubters who couldn’t even begin to imagine, let alone understand, what this feels like.
It could only happen to me!
X O X O,
Your favourite headache
But when I count the scars there’s a moment of truth ~ ThanK you aIMee, Taylor Swift, The Tortured Poets Department (the anthology)
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