Hello, Old Friend Pain

It has been quite some time since I’ve written. I can’t count how many times I’ve meant to put fingers to keyboard, only to be pulled away for one reason or another. Still, I have to admit: life has been good.

Over the holidays, I spent time camping out of the back of my truck. It gave me some much-needed family time and a chance to test the modifications I’ve made. One of my goals is to wander more and enjoy Alaska, especially in the winter. We saw temperatures down to -23°F, and everything went well except for one thing: I spent too much time in the back of the truck, sitting on milk crates. That choice triggered my sciatica.

Since early January, I’ve been fairly crippled by the pain. For about three weeks, I found myself rolling around on the floor with foam rollers, tennis balls, heating pads, and ice packs. During the second week, I met with my online VA physical therapist, who gave me exercises to help. I’ve also stayed as consistent as I can with my online VA yoga classes, often asking the instructor to focus on my low back, hips, and legs. Alongside the physical work, I’ve kept up with my mindfulness practice and continue to look forward to my weekly VA Mindfulness group on Monday mornings.

One phrase from my mindfulness coach, Hang, has stayed with me: welcome the pain and accept it. Say hello. “Hello, old friend pain.” For me, pain is never completely gone; it’s something I manage and keep at acceptable levels. For the past seven weeks, I’ve been welcoming my old friend pain, reminding myself that it isn’t an emergency. It’s just a nerve, pinched or irritated by inflammation.

Old Joel would have handled this differently. I would have pulled the cork from a bottle of wine or cracked open one of those Kirkland bottles and tried to drink the pain away. This is the first time I’ve experienced pain at this level while sober. More importantly, it’s the first time I can remember being in this much pain without feeling the urge to drink. Instead, I’m meeting it head-on.

I also choose to look at my pain positively rather than negatively. In many ways, it feels earned. I spent my career “staying 18,” keeping up with young soldiers. One of my NCOs once told me the Army is the only place where you can stay 18 for your entire career if you want to. As a battalion and brigade commander, I used to present a commander’s coin to any soldier who beat me on the two-mile run. I handed out fewer than a dozen coins. Those soldiers earned them. I also fulfilled a lifelong dream by attending Airborne School at 41 and completing the course.

The Army gave me many opportunities, and I’m grateful for them all. I’ve also been fortunate to live most of my life as an athlete. A close friend of mine, Mike, often described soldiers as decathletes. We’re expected to maintain high levels of physical performance, especially in combat arms, often without the support systems professional athletes rely on: coaches, trainers, and medical staff.

Even without that support, I ran a 49K for my 49th birthday and a 50-miler for my 50th. Before that came century bike rides, triathlons, half marathons, and full marathons. Training for the 50-miler included two marathon-distance runs and a 35-mile run, all unsupported.

So I greet my old friend pain each morning and get to work. I stretch, I breathe, I move, and I remind myself that this body has carried me a long way. This chapter isn’t about suffering; it’s about adaptation. Pain may be part of the landscape now, but it no longer sets the course. I do. And as long as I can meet it with patience, discipline, and a clear mind, without reaching for a bottle or trying to escape it, I know I’m still moving forward and doing something right.