Bearing Witness to Pain
the gift of self-compassionate reframing: seeking care is a dedication to living
January seems to hate me, and I hate it back.
I’m in the third year of my Ph.D. program, and every spring semester until now, I have been in some sort of medical hell. January creeps up with reminders of significant dates, like ghosts from my past.
January 10th, 2024: the last day of working at the elementary school without knowing.
January 11th, 2024: I got a steroid shot that knocked me off my feet and required a year of re-learning how to walk.
January 31st, 2024: the day I knew something was wrong, and I felt the inklings of a nonstop migraine beginning.
January 13th, 2025: the blind epidural blood patch that left its mark.
The thing that these dates have in common is the reminder that in an instant, without my consent, my life can completely change.
They remind me that though we put our trust in the medical system, it can fail us. In quick decisions, we are the ones left alone in the aftermath.
This is the first January that I’m going into the spring semester of my Ph.D. program without a walking boot or an ice pack tucked between my back and my chair. It is the first January in which I don’t feel as though the rug has been ripped out from underneath me.
However, it’s also the first January where I have space to process.
The Processing
Thinking back to last year, this January gives me the chance to process the parts of my blind epidural blood patch that were painful and done without my consent. I’m processing the silent tears on the operating table, the complete dismissal of my physical pain in the exam and operating rooms, the disregard for humanity that my doctors had in that moment, and the scars that I have been left with, both physical and emotional.
I am reminded of this as a procedure that triggered my hyper-independence. I felt forced to internalize excruciating physical and emotional pain, so I wouldn’t scare anyone. So that no one would question me for trusting a doctor who didn’t care about me. I chose not to ask for help and maintained my composure, because I was the one who chose to trust the doctor who hastily ordered a procedure without regard for my physical safety, and left me to face the aftermath alone.
The Witnessing
It was my choice to agree to the procedure, and I own it. However, no one was there to tell me I wasn’t alone. No one sat with me in my pain and kept me company as I suffered. No one caught my tears as the realization set in that the procedure hadn’t worked.
Bearing witness to pain and having community within it is not a desire, but a fundamental human need. Hyper-independence is a trauma response born out of experiences where witnessing and support were needed, but not given.
Medical trauma adds to this, making us question which medical professional can be trusted, and who will be there to support us should things go awry.
As a therapist, I talk a lot about reprocessing, not as rewriting what happened, but as giving our past selves what they didn’t have at the time, which is often someone to bear witness and offer compassion. A patch-present is my attempt at that—witnessing the girl who felt she was alone, and recognizing her bravery.
What I Would Tell Myself Then
What I would tell the version of myself a year ago, wide-eyed, hopeful, and desperate for relief:
You sat in religious spaces and prayed for the procedure to solve your pain. For this to be the January that changed your life for the better. You begged for a solution, and for it to finally be your turn to experience a normal life. Your mind, body, and spirit were wholly invested in this procedure being the thing that would make it all okay.
Well, darling, it was okay. Just different than what you would have ever imagined.
One year later, I am not pain-free. That procedure hurt more than it helped. But, it revealed something much more important:
Being pain-free was not the magic key to dreaming again, living again, and traveling again.
You were able to do all of it this year. You are teaching, working as a therapist, and trying to find ways to fill your cup. You are reconnecting with friends, dating, driving again, and you were just able to go on a vacation and enjoy it. Can you believe it?
One year later, let me be the one to give you a patch-present. Because although you feel alone in your pain, both physical and mental, I am witnessing it.
I witness your pain, and also your strength. Your decisions may have been judged, and you may have been reprimanded for trusting a doctor. But my dear, it was not your fault. You did what a professional believed was best, which just shows me how dedicated you are to living. And for a girl who has lived in a suicidal world for most of her life, your commitment to living is admirable. Your willingness to keep seeking care, comfort, and the pain-free life you know you deserve is inspiring.
After all of this, I am proof that there will be another January that feels okay, whether or not your circumstances change. I will hold your hand until you get there, and I’ll leave a little survival present at the door. I see you, I hear you, and I am here for you.
Prompt: What is one way you can offer yourself compassion after a trial?
If it is comfortable for you, you can even write a letter to yourself to extend some compassion.
Feel free to answer in the comments, write a summary, or journal about this on your own!
Wow, I feel like this was written specifically to me. Thank you for writing!
This piece really stayed with me, especially the idea of bearing witness as a human need. I found myself wondering about the line between “hyper-independence” and simply being alone. Sometimes what looks like a coping style from the outside feels, from the inside, like standing in a moment where there is no one there to lean on—not by choice, just by circumstance.
Your writing made me think about how powerful it is when someone steps into that space and says, “I see you.” Thank you for naming that so tenderly.