At 18 years old, life is supposed to be a series of open doors. You are standing on the precipice of adulthood, looking out at a horizon filled with college, travel, relationships, and freedom. You feel invincible.
I was not invincible. At 18, I felt broken.
While my friends were planning road trips and dorm room layouts, I was planning my life around a pill schedule. A devastating back injury had shattered my reality, trading my youthful freedom for a prison of chronic pain and a foggy haze of prescription opioids.
The medical system, which I had been raised to trust implicitly, offered me two paths: a lifetime of medication or a permanent, invasive surgery. This is the story of how I rejected both, learned to listen to my own intuition, and fought my way back to a life of movement and clarity.
The Descent into the Fog
The injury itself was sharp and immediate, but the real trauma was the slow slide that followed.
When you are in severe pain, you will do anything to stop it. When the doctors prescribed Percocet, I didn’t see it as a danger; I saw it as a lifeline. I was naive. I trusted the white coat, the degree on the wall, and the authoritative scribble on the prescription pad.
“Take this for the pain,” they said. So, I did.
At first, it worked. The sharp edges of the agony dulled. But opioids are a slippery slope, especially for a young brain. Tolerance builds quickly. What started as a way to manage acute pain turned into a terrifying escalation. The doses got higher. The frequency increased. The pills stopped being about “relief” and started being about “maintenance.”
I remember days where I wasn’t really there. I was floating in a chemical suspension, numb not just to the pain in my back, but to the world around me. I was losing my personality, my drive, and my spark, all under the guise of “treatment.”
The Ultimatum: Spinal Fusion
Physical therapy was the next step. I went through the motions, but nothing seemed to stick. The pain persisted, stubborn and screaming.
When traditional PT failed to produce results, the medical tone shifted. The doctors stopped looking at me as a person to be healed and started looking at me as a structural problem to be fixed mechanically.
They recommended Spinal Fusion Surgery.
For those who don’t know, a spinal fusion isn’t a minor tweak. It involves permanently connecting two or more vertebrae in your spine, eliminating motion between them. It often involves metal plates, screws, and rods.
I remember sitting in the cold, sterile consult room, looking at the diagrams. I saw the screws. I saw the hardware. And I looked at my 18-year-old body.
The doctor spoke with absolute certainty. He explained that this was the logical next step. He spoke of “stabilization” and “pain reduction.” But all I could hear was the finality of it.
- Once you fuse it, you can’t unfuse it.
- If I do this now, what does my back look like at 30? At 50?
- Will I ever be able to run, twist, or move freely again?
I felt a cold pit of dread in my stomach that had nothing to do with my back injury. It was the instinctual realization that this didn’t feel right.
The Power of the “No”
Society teaches us that the doctor is the expert and the patient is the recipient. To question a specialist, especially when you are barely legal to vote, feels like an act of rebellion.
But that day, rebellion was necessary for my survival.
I looked at the escalating Percocet bottles on my nightstand. I looked at the surgical brochure. And I realized that if I stayed on this conveyor belt, I knew exactly where I would end up: addicted, immobile, and reliant on the medical system forever.
I refused the surgery.
The pushback was immense. “You’re making a mistake,” I was told. “You’ll be in pain forever.” “There are no other options.”
It was terrifying to walk away from the “cure” they offered. I felt alone. I felt crazy. But deep down, I knew that my body was capable of more than they were giving it credit for. I knew that masking the pain with pills and locking the bones with screws was not healing—it was giving up.
The Journey to Empowerment
Walking away from the surgery was only the first step. I still had a bad back, and I still had a chemical dependency to break.
The journey that followed was the hardest thing I have ever done. I had to wean myself off the medication, facing the raw reality of my pain without a chemical buffer. I had to learn about my body—not from a textbook, but from experience.
I sought out alternative opinions. I looked for specialists who understood movement, biomechanics, and the nervous system, rather than just structural suppression. I learned that pain is not always a sign of damage; sometimes, it’s a signal of dysfunction that can be corrected.
I treated my recovery like a full-time job.
- I educated myself: I read everything I could find on back health, muscle imbalances, and pain science.
- I moved with intention: I found training methods that focused on strengthening the supporting structures of my body, rather than fearing movement.
- I advocated for myself: I learned to ask “Why?” and “What else?”
Slowly, agonizingly, the tide turned. The pain didn’t vanish overnight, but my relationship to it changed. I began to build a suit of armor out of muscle and mobility. I regained trust in my body.
Why You Must Be Your Own CEO
Reflecting on this pivotal moment, I realize that the most dangerous thing I faced wasn’t the injury itself—it was the blind trust I placed in a system that prioritized quick fixes over long-term health.
If I had listened to the experts that day, I would have a metal rod in my spine right now. I would likely still be in pain management. I would be a different person.
This is not to say that surgery is never necessary, or that doctors are the enemy. But it is a stark reminder that you are the CEO of your own health. Doctors are consultants. They offer advice based on their training and protocols, but you have to live in your body.
If something feels wrong—if the pills feel like a trap, or the surgery feels too aggressive—you have the right to pause. You have the right to get a second, third, or fourth opinion. You have the right to say “No.”
Embracing the Future
Today, I am not the fragile patient they said I would be. I am strong. I am active. My back, once the source of my greatest weakness, has become the origin of my greatest strength.
The scar I carry isn’t physical; it’s the memory of that consultation room. It serves as a reminder that resilience isn’t just about enduring pain—it’s about having the courage to forge your own path to healing.
In the video below, I dive deeper into the specifics of this timeline, the withdrawal, and the specific turning points that saved me. I invite you to watch it, not just to hear my story, but to find the courage to write your own.
Don’t let a diagnosis define your destiny. Trust your gut. Do the work. And never, ever give up on your ability to heal.
