Pain Is a Friend: How to Ride the Waves of Healing

How to Ride the Waves of Healing

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Segment 1 · Episode 6

Pain is a Friend

A cared-for body does not need to shout as often. — Dr. Kidi

Reflection

"If I had to live in a world without pain, I would choose not to live at all."— Dr. Paul Brand.

I first came across those words in a worn copy of The Gift of Pain at my son’s elementary school book sale. In it, Dr. Paul Brand, a pioneering physician and leprosy specialist, shows how pain is not a curse but a vital messenger and a gift, pointing us back to what needs care and restoration.

I carry his wisdom with me to where pain finds me: in my own body, in the patients I care for, and in the late-night calls when friends and family need comfort.

One such moment came during a family ski trip in 2017. I was gliding down the slope when, without warning, another skier slammed into me from behind. My left knee twisted inward while the ski rotated outward as the pointed tip jammed deep into the snow. In an instant, a jolt of pain shot through me and the only words that escaped my mouth were, “My knee, my knee, my knee…”

My husband and another skier held me up, urging me to stand. The moment my left foot touched the snow, my knee collapsed beneath me. My husband held his head in despair, and the rest of the family looked horrified. Out of instinct, my throat shifted from a cry to a song. “My knee, yes oh my knee, it hurts, oh yes it does.”

I sang as the ski patrol wrapped me into the tight embrace of the rescue toboggan. I sang as the clouds drifted across the blue sky.

I sang as the sun warmed my face with its quiet assurance that the pain in my knee and the cold beneath the toboggan were only temporary.

I sang all the way down the mountain.

These accidents are so frequent that ambulances simply wait at the base, ready. I sang softly through the ride, weaving gratitude for the gift of pain into every note. In less than five minutes, I was at an orthopedic hospital.

They laid me on an ER bed, one among many, each carrying a body bound in ice packs and splints. The air was thick with the smell of antiseptic and melted snow, the steady hum of monitors marking the rhythm of pain. It felt like a quiet battlefield, the aftermath of a war fought on the slopes. A nurse approached, her eyes kind but practiced. She knelt beside me and reached for my ski boot. I flinched before she even touched it.

“You’ve probably fractured your knee,” she said softly. Placing two white pills and a paper cup in my hand, she added, “Take these—you’ll need them before I pull the boot off.”

“I think I’m okay,” I said, my voice steadier than it felt. The nurse paused, her eyebrows lifting in quiet disbelief before she turned back to her work. The room narrowed to the sound of her gloves against the boot, the faint creak of plastic, the breath I was holding. I stayed still. Inside, music gathered, a quiet overture rising beneath the pain. Strings, then brass, the sound swelling until it filled every corner of me. When the boot finally came free, pain and music met in one sharp note. In my mind, the audience rose in a standing ovation.

The MRI flickered with shades of gray, my knee lit up like a storm system on the screen. The doctor traced the fractures with his finger, quiet but precise. More than one bone was broken. Healing would not be quick.

I left the hospital without the pain medication they offered, the pills still sealed in their plastic. In the evenings, propped up with my knee in a brace, I read about people who walked across hot coals, who pressed their feet into shards of glass without flinching, who pierced their skin in ritual suspension or lowered their bodies into icy rivers until their breath became steam. Page after page, their faces stared back at me, steady, eyes clear. In their endurance, I felt a pulse of recognition. Some small current of the same resilience flickered in me, asking to be named.

Through it all, Dr. Brand’s words kept circling back: pain is a gift. What I had once read in a worn paperback at a school book sale began to live in me, no longer an idea but a pulse beneath the skin. Pain was not only an alarm calling out from the body; it was a companion moving beside me through fear, pointing gently toward what needed care. It showed me that the mind could meet pain, could shape its edges, and that within the struggle itself there waited an invitation to grow stronger.

That ski trip, that hospital room, and the long season of mending that followed became my teachers. Each one echoed what Dr. Brand had written: without pain, we lose not only protection but also the path that leads us back to wholeness. Pain, for all its difficulty, carries a message. It arrives as both warning and wisdom, both difficulty and gift.

There are moments when medication must become part of the journey. I have taken it when I needed to, and you should too if that is what helps you find ease. Yet medication is only one way of meeting pain. What I discovered in those months of recovery is that pain is not simply a feeling to be endured; it is an experience that can be shaped. The mind can meet it, soften it, even shift its intensity. When we begin to listen to pain rather than resist it, something within us begins to change. Acceptance opens, and from that opening, true healing begins.

Pain Touches Every Life

• About 1 in 4 adults in the U.S. lives with chronic pain.

• Nearly 1 in 10 experiences pain so severe it limits daily life and work.

• The global pain management industry is worth more than 80 billion dollars, fueled by the promise of relief.

  
  

What if, instead of resisting it, we began to accept pain as a gift? Not with denial, but with clarity and strength.

What if we learn to sit with it, face it, and walk with it without losing ourselves in the process of numbing it away with medication? Not glorifying pain, but shaping it into wisdom.

Pain as Messenger

Every pain you feel is real, yet all of it is filtered through the brain and shaped by interpretation. Pain is not a curse sent to torment us but a messenger pointing us back to what needs care, compassion, and restoration. Within its presence lies an invitation. When we begin to understand how pain works, we can choose to listen rather than resist, and we can face the deeper questions it asks. This awareness softens the pain you feel in the moment and strengthens your body and mind for the long journey of healing, allowing you to rise through challenges with attention rather than resistance.

In the reflections ahead, we will look more closely at what pain is and why it exists, not as an enemy but as a messenger guiding us toward safety and care. Pain is not designed to punish but to protect. It extends beyond the physical body into a complex web of biological, social, and psychological connections. Every pain you feel is real, yet each one is shaped by the brain’s interpretation. To ease pain, we must also work with the mind, understanding how thought, memory, and emotion influence what we feel.

I will share tools that will help you meet pain with strength, replacing fear and resistance with connection. I will walk with you through stories, practices, and gentle wisdom to build resilience and reclaim ease in your life.

Let us begin.

Recap: Breath is Medicine

In our last reflection, we discovered that breath is more than survival. Each inhale and exhale carries a quiet medicine that restores balance and brings us back home to ourselves. By listening closely, we saw that the breath is always near.

To read my post on Breath is Medicine, click here.

Now we turn toward pain, carrying the breath with us as a trusted companion. Pain often feels like an intruder, arriving uninvited and demanding all of our attention. It clouds the mind and grips the body until nothing else seems to matter.

Think of a time when you were in pain, or notice if you are in pain now. Everything else fell away. The conversation you were having faded, the task you were doing was left unfinished, the world around you seemed to blur. In that moment, pain stepped into the spotlight, and all else moved into the shadow.

When pain rises, we have a choice. Instead of spiraling into fear or resistance, we can pause, breathe, and create space around the discomfort. In that space, pain begins to reveal itself as a messenger, inviting us to listen more deeply. From this listening, we begin a different kind of relationship with pain, one that can grow into a lasting friendship.

This is where we go next, into the heart of the question: What is pain?

What is pain?

The simple act of understanding pain begins to change it. When we learn how pain works, something inside us softens. Fear loosens its grip, movement feels safer, and the body starts to trust again. Knowledge becomes its own kind of medicine. Even now, as you read these words with awareness, your nervous system is practicing ease, opening a new way of relating to what you feel.

So, what is pain, really? What images or memories surface when you hear the word? The dictionary calls it an unpleasant physical or emotional sensation, a signal of discomfort or distress in response to injury, illness, or hardship. But pain is more than a definition. It is a living experience, unique to each of us, shaped by memory, emotion, and the stories we carry.

Our bodies are always listening and responding to pain’s messages. Every time you shift in your seat or turn in bed, you are answering the body’s quiet request. It is saying, If you do not move, I will create a bedsore, so you listen and adjust. Pain is not just a single sensation. It is layered, complex, and alive within us, a language of protection that asks for our attention. Let us look deeper to understand how it really works.

I like to explain it through nature. Picture a quiet lake within your body—still and reflective, yet always alive and ready to respond. On the far shore of this inner lake lies the brain, home to three key messengers: the Mapmaker, the Watcher, and the Interpreter. Skimming the surface at the water’s edge are dragonflies, quick and alert to every change.

Science gives them formal names.

• Dragonflies — Nociceptors are the body’s sentinels. Always alert, they sense danger and send urgent ripples racing across the lake. The signal travels swiftly, breaking the calm surface and carrying its message to the Mapmaker, the Watcher, and the Interpreter on the far shore—the brain.

• Mapmaker — Somatosensory cortex shows where in the body the discomfort is felt.

• Watcher — Amygdala sounds the alarm and prepares the body to fight or flee.

• Interpreter — Prefrontal cortex gives meaning to the message, shaping how you will respond.

  
  

Together, they turn a single ripple from the Dragonflies into the full experience of pain, shaping not only what you feel in your body but also how you understand and live with it.

Picture this: one golden afternoon, you are walking barefoot through the soft grass of a neighborhood park. The sun is warm, the air is easy, and then suddenly you step on something sharp. A hidden nail pierces your foot. In an instant, you cry out, your body recoils, and your foot lifts before you have time to think.

How did it all happen so fast?

The sharp point broke the stillness of the inner lake like a stone striking calm water. Ripples spread outward, carrying a single urgent message: something was wrong.

The Dragonflies, the nociceptors always on guard, sensed the disturbance and sent the signal racing across the lake at speeds of up to 250 miles per hour.

On the far shore, the brain received the message. The Mapmaker, the somatosensory cortex, marked the exact location of the injury. The Watcher, the amygdala, raised the alarm and stirred emotion into your cry.The Interpreter, the prefrontal cortex, began shaping meaning, preparing you to remember this moment and avoid danger in the future.

Together they mobilized the whole body. Muscles contracted, reflexes snapped into action, and your foot pulled free before your mind even caught up. Then, as quickly as it began, the lake inside you started to settle again. Pain had spoken its truth in less than the blink of an eye, not to punish but to protect.

Pain does not live in the body alone. It exists within a web of connections that are biological, psychological, and social. Biologically, the body’s nerves and tissues send signals to the brain. Psychologically, the mind shapes those signals through memory, emotion, and meaning. Socially, our relationships, cultures, and environments influence how we cope and what support we receive. These layers combine uniquely within each of us, which is why two people can experience the same injury, yet feel pain in completely different ways.

This is where we lean closer, to learn, to understand, and to work with the wisdom of pain. In doing so, we begin to ease the pain that has stayed too long, the kind that has become chronic. Or we learn to welcome it as a messenger that tries, in its own way, to keep us safe.

How Pain Becomes Chronic

Acute pain is like a sudden stone dropped into a still lake. Ripples spread quickly across the surface, alerting the whole system that something is wrong.

Picture again the moment when a hidden nail pierced your foot. The sharp sting tore through your body, the dragonflies leapt, and the mapmaker, watcher, and interpreter of the brain went to work. Within seconds you cried out, lifted your leg, and pulled the nail free. Once the stone was lifted, the ripples began to fade, and the water slowly returned to calm. This is acute pain: a clear signal that protects you and then lets go.

Chronic pain is when the nail is gone, yet the lake still stirs. Or perhaps the nail remains, like a pinched nerve that refuses to release, making pain a constant shadow of the body. The ripples circle endlessly, long after the stone has been lifted. The surface remembers the disturbance, replaying the motion again and again. Inside, the Mapmaker, the Watcher, the Interpreter of the brain return to their worn paths, sending signals even when no injury remains. What once protected you becomes a pattern that refuses to quiet. Why? Because the brain remembers.

Think of the brain’s pathways like trails carved into the grass around the lake. Each time pain signals travel those trails, the path becomes more worn, easier to follow, and harder to ignore. Over time, the brain returns again and again to the same route, replaying the pain even after the original cause has healed.

But there is hope.

The brain is plastic, meaning it can change and adapt. Just as new trails can form around the lake, new patterns can take shape within the brain. You can negotiate with the Mapmaker, the Watchman, and the Interpreter, but this begins with listening.

Claim your body with breath.

Move it without fear.

Each time you do, you carve a fresh trail of safety and trust.

Step by step, the old pathways grow quiet, and the lake begins to find its stillness again.

When Pain Plays Tricks on Us: How the Brain Shapes What We Feel

The ripples of pain do not always follow simple rules.

Sometimes they fade at once.

Sometimes they keep circling long after the pain is gone.

Sometimes waves rise when no stone has touched the water at all.

A story of a construction worker who stepped on a long nail jutting from a board tells it clearly. He crumpled certain his foot was ruined. At the hospital, they cut away his boot. The nail had slipped neatly between his toes.

No wound.

No blood.

Yet his body had suffered the full storm.

The second story comes from my medical school days.

A woman in a wheelchair pointed toward the burning in her right toes and pleaded for relief. Her chart confirmed what she already knew: her right leg had been amputated below the knee. She motioned to the empty space on the footrest and whispered, “Please help me.” The fire she felt in her missing toes was real. It is called phantom pain.

Pain is more than injury. It is memory and meaning, the brain’s best attempt to protect us in a changing world. Have you ever felt pain that did not match the visible story of your body? And if you have, what did it reveal to you? It may not offer easy answers, yet within that complexity, something alive and hopeful begins to take shape.

Sometimes pain begins in the body, a nail underfoot, an old sprain, a wound that never fully quieted. Other times it rises from memory, fear, or grief, stirring the inner waters just as deeply. In both, the nervous system rallies and the pain feels real. The pain born of the body can be eased by removing its source. The pain born of memory, emotion, or perception softens when we listen to the body, speak to it with patience, and reassure the Mapmaker, the Watcher, and the Interpreter. With time, the waters learn a new rhythm, and the waves begin to move differently.

Pain, then, is not only physical. It is also emotional, a signal that travels through both body and mind, carrying stories, memories, and meanings that shape how we feel and heal.

Physical vs Emotional Pain

Physical pain begins in the body and is interpreted by the brain. It is the ripple that follows an injury, illness, or strain. The Dragonflies at the edges of the body are always alert, skimming the lake and sensing when something is wrong. Their signals race across the water to the brain, where the Mapmaker, the Watcher, and the Interpreter decide how the body should respond.

Emotional pain begins in the mind and the heart, yet it moves through the body. It is the ripple that rises not from a wound on the skin but from loss, disappointment, or fear. These unseen injuries leave no scar, yet the body still reacts. Breath shortens. Muscles tighten. The inner lake stirs.

To love is to risk loss. To hope is to risk disappointment. These experiences are part of being human. The pain of loss or disappointment can feel as sharp as a physical wound. The Mapmaker, the Watcher, and the Interpreter respond in the same way, because pain is always a ripple in the lake of the body. Sometimes the surface settles quickly. Other times, the water keeps moving long after the moment has passed. With time, the nervous system can become overprotective, turning small ripples into storms.

Our pain system learns from experience — from fear, from memory, from moments that once felt unsafe. This is why two people can live through the same heartbreak, the same loss, or even the same injury, yet feel it in entirely different ways. The lake is shared, but each body’s waters move to their own rhythm.

Pain lives in both body and mind, both wound and memory. Medication may quiet it for a while, but it cannot erase memory or soothe the emotions that keep the waters restless.

The good news is that much more lies within our reach: our breath, our thoughts, our choices, and our values. Change does not arrive on its own. It asks for commitment. We must believe, repeat, and practice patience.

Each intentional choice creates space around discomfort. With time, the reflex to fear pain can become the practice of meeting it. Pain met with awareness becomes a seed of renewal. Growth begins where avoidance ends.

Pain Is Not a Choice but Suffering Is

It helps to remember the difference between pain and suffering.

Pain is the body’s signal. It begins in the tissues or in the emotions of the heart and is processed in the brain. Pain tells us something is wrong or needs care. It is the ripple in the lake when a stone falls.

Suffering begins when the story takes over: Why me? I will never be free. I cannot live like this. The nerves fire, the brain interprets, and the pain is undeniable. Pain may ease with treatment or time, yet suffering lingers until the story changes. And changing a story takes effort, patience, and practice.

Some patients come to me bent under the weight of despair, whispering that they cannot take another day. Their pain is real, but the story they carry turns every moment into a prison. Others arrive with nearly the same symptoms, yet their eyes hold steadiness. They tell me the pain is tough, but they have learned to breathe with it, to listen. They speak of gardens, of laughter with grandchildren, of evenings with friends. The pain remains, but their story gives them space to live.

I have known this difference in my own life too. When I lost someone I loved, the pain hollowed me out. It left me gasping in a world that felt broken. At first I lived in suffering, trapped in the story that life had ended with their absence. But over time, through breath, reflection, and love, the story shifted. The pain stayed, but it became a reminder of the depth of love we shared. The sorrow softened into gratitude. The ache became a way to honor, not to despair.

When despair, fear, or resistance tighten around it, pain grows sharper and more relentless. Healing begins when we tend to the story that suffering tells. Pain is the ripple across the lake. Suffering is how we choose to carry it. We cannot always stop the ripples, but we can choose whether the waters churn without end or soften again into stillness.

And yet, what if the ripples never came at all? What if there was no pain to warn, no cry to protect? That absence, too, carries its own form of suffering.

We Take Pain for Granted

In The Gift of Pain, Dr. Paul Brand tells the story of a young girl born with congenital insensitivity to pain. She did not feel pain. Her parents lived in despair. They would find her with burns, cuts, and broken skin she had never noticed. As a child she bit her fingers until they bled, streaking the walls red without ever feeling a thing. Her parents tried to guard her every move, terrified of what might happen when no warning arrived. What most of us resent was the very thing she lacked, and that lack threatened her life each day.

I have never met someone with this condition, but as a young person in Ethiopia I did encounter people with leprosy. Leprosy is often remembered as a disease that eats away at flesh. In truth, it is the loss of pain that destroys the body. The infection damages nerves, stripping away sensation. Without pain, the body loses its alarm system, its most faithful protector.

I still remember the day a man climbed onto the Number 3 bus in Addis Ababa. He gripped the rail with a hand that looked more wound than flesh, bandages stained, skin raw. His face showed nothing. No wince. No flinch. Only silence.

As a child I rode that bus often to visit my best friend. It was the one most avoided, the one that stopped at the gates of the leprosy hospital. People only whispered warnings, telling us not to touch. I sat in my seat, both curious and afraid, watching patients shuffle aboard with scarred feet and missing fingers, wrapped in cloth that could not hide their injuries.

Back then I thought leprosy consumed the body itself. What I did not yet know was that it consumed pain. Without the warning cry of pain, a hand lingered too long on a cooking fire until the skin charred. A shoe rubbed against the foot until bone was exposed. Injuries multiplied not because the body was weak but because its guardian had gone missing.

I can still see them outside the hospital gates, sitting in the heat with open wounds, hoping a passerby might drop a coin. Entire families marked by the disease, left in the shadows as others turned away.

I did not know this then, but I now know that to take pain for granted is to forget that it carries the body’s deep wisdom, a voice calling us back to care, to presence, and to life.

How to Befriend Pain

When I speak of pain, I mean both the physical and the emotional. The body does not separate them. The nervous system carries both as signals, both as voices asking the same question: What within you needs attention? 

The path to befriending pain has three movements: prevent, soothe, sustain.

Prevent. A cared-for body does not need to shout as often. Gentle, consistent movement keeps the joints fluid and the muscles strong. Nourishing foods and healing herbs quiet inflammation and bring balance to the inner climate. Steady breath teaches the nervous system to settle, so when discomfort arises, you are already prepared to meet it with calm.

Soothe. Pain will come, even with preparation. How you meet it matters. Words help. To call it agony can make it heavier. To call it discomfort invites curiosity. Even words like comfort can gently trick the mind, guiding it toward ease.

Gentle tools like graded motor imagery can help retrain the brain’s map. It begins with imagination, then observation, then safe engagement, reminding the body that not every signal means danger.

Slow breath, soft touch, and small, kind actions calm the nervous system. You can even ask pain what it wants you to notice. The struggle becomes dialogue. The resistance becomes listening.

Sustain. When pain eases, the work continues. Daily rituals keep the friendship alive. Return to the breath when tension builds. Move often so energy does not stagnate. Choose foods and herbs that nourish balance. Rest well. Stay attentive so pain does not have to shout to be heard.

To befriend pain is to prepare for its arrival, to meet it with compassion when it comes, and to do daily practices that hold you steady so pain becomes a teacher to guide you back to what healing knows.

This brings us to Dr. Kidi’s Reset. These are not abstract ideas or distant theories. They are the daily practices I turn to when pain visits, whether it comes to me, my patients, or those I love. Now I want to share them with you, so they can become part of your own path toward ease. Think of them as small resets, simple shifts in breath, body, and awareness that calm the ripples, guide the nervous system, and restore balance one moment at a time.

From here on, I will address pain as discomfort to help form the habit of using words that soothe, not speak of suffering. Let us begin?

Dr. Kidi’s Reset

Discomfort will come; that part is certain. But suffering does not have to follow. The Dr. Kidi Reset, Prevent, Soothe, and Sustain is a series of practices for meeting discomfort with steadiness instead of fear, and with connection instead of isolation. When we prepare for discomfort with awareness, we create calm within—a calm that softens what we feel today and strengthens us for what is yet to come.

Prevent

The best way to befriend discomfort is to care for the body before it rises too strongly. Prevention does not mean you will never feel discomfort; it simply lowers the chances that it will grow louder than it needs to.

Eat to Heal

What you eat shapes how your body feels. A diet rich in fresh, whole foods helps calm inflammation and restore balance. Fresh turmeric and ginger, grated into meals or steeped into teas, are simple gifts from the earth that soothe tension and support renewal. You can even grow them at home, tending them as living medicine rather than reaching for powders or pills. These roots, when used in daily nourishment, can ease chronic discomfort and sustain the body in gentle, natural ways.

Sleep Well

Sleep is one of the body’s quietest medicines for preventing discomfort. During deep rest, the nervous system resets, muscles repair, and inflammation eases. Without enough sleep, the body grows more sensitive, more reactive, and slower to recover. Even a few nights of poor rest can heighten discomfort, while steady, restorative sleep strengthens resilience. Making space for rest is not indulgence; it is a way of listening before the body has to cry out.

Listen to the Tinfash Sleep Meditation by Dr. Kidi to help your body settle into deeper rest.

Get Some Sun

Sunlight supports prevention by boosting vitamin D, which strengthens bones, muscles, and the immune system while calming inflammation. It also helps regulate sleep, one of the body’s strongest natural defenses against discomfort. Just a few minutes of sunlight each day can steady the body before imbalance takes hold.

Move Your Body

Gentle, regular activity keeps the body supple and strong. At least thirty minutes a day—walking, stretching, or yoga—can help keep muscles fluid, joints mobile, and circulation flowing. You do not need to push or strain; steady movement builds strength and flexibility that protect the body from deeper discomfort.

Meditate and Breathe with intention

A few moments of daily stillness help the nervous system stay balanced. Slow, steady breathing sends messages of safety through the body, keeping the inner waters calm before discomfort arrives. Mindfulness and breath practices not only reduce the intensity of discomfort but also reshape how the brain perceives it, creating space for ease to grow.

Try the Tinfash Stillness Meditation by Dr. Kidi to guide your breath and bring calm to the body’s inner rhythm.

Soothe

Even with prevention, discomfort will arrive. What matters is how you respond when it does. These practices turn fear into dialogue and soften pain’s hold.

• Word Shifting: Change the language you use. Instead of saying, “I have stabbing back pain,” try, “My back feels less comfortable today.” Softer words calm the nervous system and ease the body’s reaction.

• Visualization: Picture yourself moving with ease, smiling, or walking without hesitation. Imagine it going well each day until your body remembers safety. This retrains the nervous system to trust again.

• Conversation: Talk to your discomfort the same way you would speak to someone who is upset. Use calming words. You might say, “I understand you are trying to protect me. I am grateful for that. I hear you. You can soften now. Let’s breathe together.” Imagine your tone easing the tension, like peace returning after a hard conversation. Each breath becomes a bridge between awareness and calm. When you speak to discomfort with understanding, the body begins to trust your voice again.

  
  

Sustain

When discomfort quiets, it is tempting to stop listening. We forget. We take ease for granted. That is often when it returns. Sustaining practices keep the body balanced and the lake within calm.

Listen to the Body

Pay attention to the whispers before they grow louder. Fatigue, tension, or stiffness are early signals asking for care. Listening early prevents the need for the body to raise its voice.

Return to Prevention

When discomfort eases, continue your gentle movement, steady breath, and nourishing meals. These are quiet ways of tending to the body so it does not need to cry out. Healing is a lifelong practice, shaped by intention and patience. Every breath is an opportunity to return, to soften, and to heal.

The Dr. Kidi Reset is not about denial. It is about replacing fear with awareness and avoidance with resilience. With practice, discomfort becomes less of an enemy and more of a teacher, guiding you back to what truly matters.

To go deeper into each practice—through guided meditations, reflections, and gentle tools for everyday healing—visit my Reflection Space, where you can explore and experience the Reset in your own rhythm.

What Next?

Listening itself is a healing act.

From the moment I cried out on the ski slope to the quiet mornings when patients whispered their despair, the thread has always been the same: the body asks us to listen. Discomfort is not here to punish. It is here to signal, to guide, to point us back toward what needs care.

The brain does more than measure tissue damage. It holds your stories, your habits, your fears, and your hopes, shaping the way discomfort is felt. Perfectionism, people-pleasing, and the quiet storing of emotion can amplify the body’s alarms. Stress deepens the cycle. Even relationships are touched, tempting you to pull away when connection is the very medicine you need.

But here is the truth: discomfort is real, and interpretation can change. When we meet it with fear, suffering grows louder. When we meet it with compassion and awareness, suffering softens, and discomfort becomes a guide instead of an enemy.

Discomfort can break you down, but it can also break you open. It can refine you, reveal what matters most, and carry you toward deeper wholeness. It is not here only to be endured. It is here to be respected, studied, and befriended.

If you lean in, stay still, and listen, you will find that discomfort is not the end of the story. It is a compass pointing you home, guiding you back again and again to what healing knows.

Note to My Readers and Listeners: There’s so much more to discomfort (pain) than what I’ve shared here. What I’ve offered is a starting point—enough for you to begin understanding and practicing what your body is trying to tell you. If you’d like to go deeper, there’s a wealth of good research and writing out there that explores discomfort and the nervous system in greater depth.

Even though I am a physician, this reflection isn’t meant to replace your personal medical care. If you’re experiencing discomfort that worries you or isn’t improving, please reach out to your healthcare provider. You deserve support, and healing often begins with asking for it.

Dr. Kidi's Healing Space

Guided Meditation: Conversations with the Body: A Healing Meditation and Conversation with the Body

Journal Invitation

By hand:What is this sensation in my body asking me to notice today?

Healing Words to Repeat

Pain is a sensation, not a threat, and I can breathe with it.

Call to Connection

I would love to know how this reflection on pain touched you. What did you notice when you paused and listened instead of turning away?

Share your reflections in the comments below so we can learn from one another. If you share on social media, tag me on Instagram @drkidi.healing so we can stay connected and continue walking this path together.

Until next time, honor what your body is asking of you. Keep listening. Healing always knows the way.

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