Hello.
Is Sheila Starrett here again?
So take a moment to settle yourself.
There's nothing you need to do right now.
Nothing you need to fix.
Nothing you need to overcome.
Just allow yourself to be here.
And perhaps if you're living with pain,
Allow yourself to notice that fact too.
I know that pain can be physical or emotional.
Or it can be both physical and you feel it emotionally as well.
And pain can arrive in such an extraordinary way.
Sometimes it comes suddenly.
A sharp sensation.
A strange age.
A movement that suddenly hurts when it never did before.
And there can be something almost shocking about that first moment.
That awful surprise of mine.
What is that?
Why does that hurt?
Surely that isn't going to stay.
And often at first we assume it won't.
We carry on.
We wait for it to disappear.
We tell ourselves it would probably be better tomorrow.
And sometimes it is.
But sometimes it isn't.
And gradually almost imperceptibly.
Something changes.
The pain that was supposed to be temporary.
Begins to become familiar.
You begin to know where it is.
You begin to anticipate it.
You begin to move differently because of it.
You begin to think about it.
You begin to work around it.
And perhaps there comes a point when you realise with a kind of dull shock.
This is still here.
And perhaps even more difficult.
This may be here for some time.
That can be a very painful realization in itself.
Because pain is not simply a sensation.
It can change your relationship with our body.
It can change the way we move through our days.
It can change what we expect of ourselves.
And sometimes the part of the body where the pain lives.
Can become the focus of an enormous amount of anger.
And disappointment.
Why are you doing this?
Why can't you just work properly?
Why won't you let me get on with my life?
And meanwhile the rest of the body seems to rally around it It compensates.
It adjusts.
It takes the wet.
It takes the slack.
It works harder.
It tries to keep everything going.
Almost as though one part of the family has suddenly become completely overwhelmed.
Imagine a child having an enormous tantrum in the middle of a public place.
Everyone turns to look.
The rest of the family stands there aghast.
Perhaps everyone is hardly breathing.
Because they're embarrassed.
Because they're.
.
.
Perhaps they're thinking.
Please stop.
Please let this be over.
Please don't let everyone see us like this.
And perhaps privately there is anger too.
Pull yourself together.
Why are you behaving like this?
We can't keep doing this.
And yet the rest of the family is still trying to carry on.
Trying to walk Trying to behave normally.
Trying to pretend nothing is happening.
Pain can sometimes become a little like that.
Not because the painful part of the body is a troublesome child.
And not because the body is deliberately letting us down but because we can find ourselves relating to our own pain.
As though it is an unwelcome disruption.
That we desperately need to contain.
We may try to ignore it.
We may try to negotiate with it.
We may become angry with it.
We may pretend it isn't there.
And all the while the rest of the body is working incredibly hard to compensate.
Perhaps you have noticed this in yourself.
The way you walk,
The way you sit,
The way you climb stairs,
The way you get out of bed,
The way you carry something.
The way you avoid certain movements.
The way your mind helps you compensate.
The way you plan your day around what your body might or might not allow you to do.
Perhaps you've become very good at working around your pain.
So good,
In fact,
That other people may not even realise how much effort it takes.
Because from the outside you may look as though you're carrying on.
But inside you know.
You know how much energy it takes.
You know what you have stopped doing.
You know what you have had to give up.
You know how much thought goes into something that once required no thought at all.
And perhaps this is where another kind of pain begins.
The pain of not being able to explain.
Because how do we explain pain to someone who isn't feeling it?
How do you explain something that changes?
Something that may be there all day,
But differently.
Something that may be invisible.
Something that can make an ordinary task feel enormous.
Perhaps you find yourself saying,
I'm fine because explaining feels too difficult.
Or perhaps you don't want to be a burden.
Or perhaps you're tired of trying to make someone understand.
And perhaps there's embarrassment too.
Embarrassment that you can't do what you used to do.
Embarrassment that you need to stop.
Embarrassment that you're slower.
Embarrassment that you have to say no.
Embarrassment that something apparently simple has become difficult.
Embarrassment that maybe you look different than you used to do.
And beneath the embarrassment there may be sadness.
A very real sadness.
Because perhaps you cannot simply Carry on with your life.
In the way you used to.
Perhaps there are things you can no longer do.
Or things you could only do differently.
Perhaps your life has become smaller.
In ways you never expected.
And sometimes the hardest part is accepting that.
Not giving up,
Not deciding that life is over,
But acknowledging honestly.
Something has changed.
And that can take time.
And acceptance if it comes.
May not arrive as one great moment of peace.
It may come quietly.
A little at a time.
Perhaps one day you stop arguing quite so fiercely with what is happening.
Perhaps you stop demanding that your body return immediately.
To the body you remember.
Perhaps you begin to listen.
And this is where I wonder if we might notice something else.
The way we speak to ourselves when we are in pain.
Because sometimes our own inner voice becomes incredibly harsh.
Pull yourself together.
It's only a bit of pain.
Other people have got it worse.
Stop making such a fuss Just get on with it.
You managed yesterday.
You should be able to do this.
But imagine saying those things,
Any of those things,
To someone you love.
Someone who is hurting.
Someone whose body had suddenly become difficult for them.
Would you really say?
Pull yourself together.
Would you tell them it was only a bit of pain?
Would you tell them they should be coping better?
Probably not.
And yet we can speak to ourselves in precisely this way.
We can become cruel to the very person who is suffering.
Ourselves.
And perhaps that cruelty doesn't make us stronger.
Perhaps it simply means that now we have pain.
And we're also fighting ourselves.
So,
For a moment,
What if we stopped?
What if you didn't have to make yourself feel better?
What if you didn't have to accept everything?
What if you didn't have to be positive?
What if you simply allowed yourself to acknowledge?
This is hard.
This hurts.
This has changed things for me.
And I am doing my best.
Perhaps you could imagine yourself.
Holding something very small and vulnerable.
A newborn baby.
A little puppy.
Tiny kitten.
Something completely dependent upon your care.
You wouldn't expect it to pull itself together.
You wouldn't be angry with it for needing comfort.
You wouldn't tell it that someone else has it worse.
You would simply become softer.
You would make room.
You would hold it carefully.
You would perhaps say.
It's all right.
I'm here.
You don't have to do anything right now.
You are not alone.
And perhaps just for this moment.
You could offer a little of that same tenderness to yourself.
Not because pain has won,
Not because you're giving in,
But because you are a human being.
Living through something difficult.
You might place a hand somewhere that feels comfortable.
Or simply imagine the warmth of a hand resting gently upon you.
And perhaps say quietly to yourself,
I know this is hard.
I know you're tired.
You don't have to pretend with me.
You don't have to be brave every minute.
We can take this one moment at a time.
And notice what happens when you stop fighting yourself quite so fiercely.
Perhaps nothing changes in the pain.
And that is okay.
This isn't about making promises that kindness will make pain disappear.
It's about something much simpler.
About not adding another layer of suffering.
To what is already difficult.
About allowing the body to be cared for.
Rather than constantly criticized.
About beginning to live alongside yourself again.
Perhaps the part of you that hurts.
Does not need to be shied to that.
Perhaps it needs to be heard.
Perhaps the rest of you does not need to hold its breath.
Perhaps it can soften just a little.
And perhaps gradually.
You can begin to discover a different relationship with your body.
Not the body you wish you had.
Not the body you remember not the body you think you ought to have.
But the body that is here,
Your body.
The body that has carried you through everything you have lived and perhaps today instead of asking it.
Why aren't you better?
You might simply ask.
What do you need from me now?
No demand.
No judgment.
No expectation.
Just a little curiosity.
And perhaps a little kindness.
Because you don't have to solve your whole relationship with pain today.
You don't have to know what the future will look like.
You don't have to accept everything all at once.
For now,
Perhaps,
It's enough to stop fighting yourself for a moment,
To breathe,
To soften.
And to remember that you deserve the same gentleness you would instinctively offer to something small,
Vulnerable and hurting.
Your hair.
You're doing your best.
And for this moment,
That's enough.
Take a little time now.
Before you return to whatever comes next.
And perhaps carry one small thought with you.
I don't have to be at war with myself.
I can begin gently.
To be on my own side.
So thank you for being with me today.
We'll meet again soon.
Take good care of yourself.
