By /

Who Am I Without the Pain?

For 18 years, I woke up in pain. I went to sleep in pain. I walked through the world carrying a shattered ankle that had been powder once, that I’d rebuilt through sheer will and a lot of saying “it’s gonna work” before every step.

And then, a few months ago, I got an exoskeleton.

It’s called an ExoSym, this thing that wraps around my ruined leg and lets me run for the first time since I was 21. Jump. Walk without the constant grinding reminder that my body had broken and healed wrong.

I thought losing the pain would feel like freedom. Pure relief. Uncomplicated joy.

Instead, I’m having an identity crisis.

Somewhere along the way, without realizing it, my internal equation had become: pain plus work, plus happiness equals outcomes. I had baked suffering into my formula for success. It was always there, this invisible tax I paid on everything I did. Raising my kids. Going back to grad school. Writing a book. Building a career in climate. All of it came with an asterisk: while in constant pain.

And now? Now I’m having to convince myself that I can still be me without it.

That sounds absurd when I type it out. Of course I want to be free of pain. Of course this is better. But for nearly two decades, I organized my entire life around managing limited energy. I’d run out of steps before I ran out of day. My brain would still be awake but my body would force me into bed because I simply couldn’t walk anymore. I was always calculating, always hoarding, always doing one more thing before the pain got too bad because what if tomorrow was worse?

Now I go to bed at night and wake up with a full tank. Like everyone else apparently has been doing this whole time.

I’ve discovered I have two extra hours in my day. Two hours that used to belong to pain and exhaustion. I’ve discovered TV. Walking with friends for the joy of it, not just to get somewhere. Staying out late because I can.

You know the spoons metaphor? It’s a disability thing. You only have so many spoons of energy, and they don’t refill predictably. Making breakfast might cost you three spoons. A meeting might cost five. And some mornings you wake up and you’ve only got two to work with, and that’s it, that’s all you get.

For the first time in my adult life, I feel like a person who gets refillable spoons.

So what do I do now?

My whole identity was built around overcoming. Pushing through. Being the person who accomplished things despite the pain. Every crazy decision I made, every success, added evidence to my portfolio that it could work, that working through pain was possible. That became who I was. The reckless optimist who said “it’s gonna work” and then proved it, over and over, while carrying this broken body up every hill.

What happens when the hill flattens out?

I’ve started stepping down from some leadership positions. Wrapping things up. For the first time, I’m not sprinting to get one more thing done before I collapse. I’m asking: what if I kept all my energy for myself? What if I got bored but had my whole brain available to figure out what to do about it?

I have no idea what comes next. And that’s terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure.

Here’s what I’m learning: we live in a society that only values us for what we’ve accomplished. Won the award. Made the money. Beat the odds. We’re taught to value ourselves through the lens of our past, our victories, our overcoming.

But the work itself is what matters. The act of working. The act of living. Not what you accomplish with it.

I mattered when I was in pain, fighting through every day. And I matter now, standing in this strange new life where the ground doesn’t hurt to stand on. Not because of what I’ve done. Just because I’m here, doing the work of being alive.

It’s gonna work. I’ve been saying that for 18 years. Time to see what it means when it’s not a fight anymore.

Who Am I Without the Pain?

Related:

Scroll to Top