When Pain Decides to Be the Main Character

The past couple of weeks have been… let’s call them “eventful.” Not the good kind of eventful, like surprise cake or Canada beating New Zealand in the rugby (which, yes, I missed, we’ll get there), but the kind where your body decides to audition for a horror movie.

I’ve lived with nerve pain for years, and after my last surgery, I thought maybe, just maybe, I was on the up. For a couple of months, things eased, and I dared to hope. But lately? The pain has sky-rocketed to “unlivable” levels. Imagine being stabbed, burned, and whacked with a sledgehammer all at once, while your leg simultaneously feels like it might explode, except when you look down, it’s just… your leg. Normal size. Zero drama on the outside, full apocalypse on the inside.

That brings me to the Canada vs. New Zealand quarterfinal. I had tickets. I had hope. I had snacks planned. But what I didn’t have was a leg willing to cooperate. The pain was so relentless that I couldn’t even make it to the car. And yes, I’ve pushed through ridiculous levels of pain before, but nerve pain doesn’t negotiate. It laughs in your face when you try. So instead of rugby, I got another round of sleepless nights and the sinking feeling that I’m missing out, again.

When pain turns the dial up to “red zone,” it’s not just physical. It sneaks into your head, whispering questions like: How long can I keep living like this? Is the good stuff good enough to outweigh the bad? And I hate that it makes me doubt, because honestly, I’ve done some pretty cool things, though I never really call them “achievements.” I’ve broken records, fundraised, advocated, shouted loudly about women’s rugby, and worked for small charities that don’t get the spotlight. But when the inside of you feels like a battlefield, it’s hard to reconcile that with the smiling version people see online.

I’ve already had more surgeries than I can count on one hand (23? 24? 25?), and the idea of more looms large. So do the meds. I’ve been on tramadol for over a decade. My wife swears I was a happier, more smiley human before it. (Apparently, I’ve downgraded to “happy-ish with occasional sarcasm.”) And while I’ll never stop pushing myself, in sport, in advocacy, in fundraising, sometimes the returns feel brutally lopsided.

I’ve raised money, yes. But compared to others? It’s a drop in the bucket. I’ve seen people go for a 10-mile walk and raise more than I did wheeling 900 miles in a bog-standard manual wheelchair. No batteries. No fancy tech. Just arms, wheels, and stubbornness. And while people are kind, supportive, and generous in spirit, the lack of wider media attention, especially for women, and especially without a publicity machine behind you, is a hard pill to swallow.

Still, I keep going. Not because of the records (though they sound shiny), but because I want to prove what’s possible when you refuse to quit. I want people to see what women in sport are capable of, what life with chronic illness can still look like, and why smaller charities deserve as much love as the giants.

So yeah, pain is currently trying to steal the show. But I’ll say this: if pain thinks it’s the main character, it’s got another thing coming. I may miss a rugby match or two, but I’m not done fighting, fundraising, or rolling into ridiculous world records just to make a point. And if that means being stubbornly optimistic while occasionally swearing at my leg, so be it.