It was a seemingly ordinary spring evening in 1998 when an unexpected tumble down a flight of concrete stairs leading to the Chicago River changed the course of my life. Initially, the incident seemed minor – painful and a bit embarrassing, but I quickly recovered, dusted myself off, and moved on. In my twenties, I was preoccupied with a significant career shift, and the event soon faded into memory. Life continued at its usual pace for several months.
However, that autumn, an unsettling incident occurred at work. While walking down a hallway, my right foot inexplicably dragged, causing me to fall. Initially dismissing it, the falls became more frequent. Strange sensations began to surface in my hands – persistent numbness, occasional tingling. Typing at work would trigger sharp pains shooting through my arms and shoulders. These symptoms were intermittent, appearing and disappearing, yet their frequency grew. Despite hoping for improvement, my condition worsened. After months of enduring these perplexing and increasingly bothersome symptoms in my hands, feet, and arms, I realized something was fundamentally wrong.
Illness was a foreign concept to me. Beyond a bout of mononucleosis in college, I had little experience with physical suffering. I had always been grateful for a healthy, athletic body. Now, it felt like my body was constantly malfunctioning, and I was completely bewildered. I contacted my doctor, who, while not overly concerned, scheduled an appointment. After the examination, he declared me perfectly healthy. But I felt far from fine. In fact, I was deteriorating. Tripping became a regular occurrence. The pain in my hands and feet intensified. Walking became increasingly difficult. Upon my return, my physician suggested Carpal Tunnel Syndrome and referred me to a hand surgeon at a prominent hospital.
Serious worry began to set in.
The internet was still nascent in those days, but sufficiently developed for my needs. I spent countless hours searching online, desperately seeking answers. Eventually, I arrived at a self-diagnosis: Thoracic Outlet Syndrome (TOS). Armed with printed pages of information, I presented my case to the hand surgeon. He listened patiently, a slight smile playing on his lips, but ultimately dismissed my self-diagnosis, along with Carpal Tunnel. Instead, he recommended an Electromyogram (EMG).
In hindsight, I can confidently describe an Electromyogram as a medieval torture device disguised as a medical diagnostic test. For nearly an hour, a team of physicians in white coats subjected my left arm to escalating electric shocks. They observed my muscle spasms with furrowed brows, recording their intensity. They huddled, discussing my case while I endured the ordeal, sweating, shivering, and fighting nausea. Post-test, they declared the results normal. Then, they proposed testing my right arm. I declined and retreated home, utterly surprised to experience a few days of relief.
Predictably, this improvement was short-lived. The tripping returned, walking became more challenging, objects slipped from my grasp, and the numbness in my fingers intensified. My physical state was clearly declining. Seeking a second opinion proved fruitless. I revisited my primary physician, who, apologetically, admitted his inability to diagnose or help me.
Feeling abandoned by conventional medicine, I turned to alternative approaches.
I consulted a chiropractor who focused on my neck, an acupuncturist who treated my arms, and a naprapath who worked on my entire body. A naturopath prescribed herbal remedies. I embarked on a five-day juice fast and indulged in three massages in a single week, hoping for relief. Each treatment offered fleeting respite, but the symptoms invariably returned, each time more severe. These symptoms began to dominate my every waking moment. They were my first thought upon waking, my constant companion at work, and my last thought before sleep. Research consumed me, pondering and fretting over my findings. I abandoned my usual activities and withdrew from social interactions. Eventually, even exercise and outdoor excursions ceased.
One day, seeking solace, I attended a gentle yoga class. Attempting a simple backbend required the support of two people. Straining in pain, the stark contrast struck me: “Less than a decade ago, I was a varsity college athlete. What am I doing here?” Yet, there I was.
Almost a year had passed since my initial fall near the river, and my condition had only deteriorated. My daily life was unrecognizable. Uncertainty loomed, and hope dwindled as conventional and alternative treatments failed.
Then, unexpectedly, everything shifted. A glimmer of hope appeared – at a cocktail party, of all places.
A friend on a non-profit board invited me to a benefit dinner. Another friend, Dany, was also present. Upon seeing Dany, I immediately noticed his posture – he was standing awkwardly, crooked. He explained he had thrown his back out playing basketball the previous day. We commiserated about our physical ailments.
Later that evening, Dany and I were in conversation with a third friend, Rich. Rich, observing Dany’s discomfort, remarked, “You know, I used to have back problems, but not anymore.” We looked at him quizzically, prompting him to elaborate: “I remember one night, hanging upside down in my basement in antigravity boots, trying to stretch my spine, and realizing, this can’t be right. So, I researched and discovered a book by a physician named Dr. John Sarno, who believes back pain is often rooted in misplaced stress and emotions. It resonated with me, so I called his office for an appointment.”
Rich continued, “At the time, Dr. John Sarno was primarily seeing patients from New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania. So, I fibbed and said I was from New Jersey. I flew to New York, met with him, underwent an examination, and he declared that I had no structural back issues. He invited me to his lecture that evening. I attended his two-hour lecture, and by the end, I knew – with absolute certainty – that there was nothing physically wrong with my back. It was stress, manifesting physically. I haven’t had back problems since.”
Dany was intrigued and expressed his intention to read Dr. John Sarno’s book. I remained quiet, a thought dawning: “Wait, I’ve read that book before.”
Let me rewind briefly. As mentioned, this health crisis coincided with a major career transition.
After college, I began working as a youth worker. Later, I transitioned to child welfare, supporting teenagers in state care as they prepared for independent living. My role was to equip them with essential life skills – managing an apartment, maintaining employment, and continuing their education. After four years, I felt a growing need for a different professional path.
I considered various advanced degrees but none felt quite right.
For years, a subtle inclination towards medical school had lingered, but I lacked science prerequisites and harbored a fear of blood, or so I thought. Eventually, I took a leap of faith, enrolling in physiology and biology courses. The following year, I left social work and worked in a health clinic for nine months. There, I discovered my aversion to blood was unfounded. I continued taking science courses and secured a research position at the University of Chicago. I was just settling into this new role when I experienced that fateful fall down the stairs.
During my studies, integrative medicine had captured my interest. I had incorporated yoga and dietary changes into my life. By the time my symptoms emerged, I had explored acupuncture, chiropractic, naturopathic, and naprapathic schools. Although I ultimately chose a conventional medical path, alternative approaches still intrigued me.
Somewhere along my exploration of alternative medicine, I had encountered Dr. John E. Sarno’s book, The Mindbody Prescription. In it, Dr. John Sarno elucidates how life’s challenges can manifest physically as pain – often back pain, but also migraines, neck pain, stomach issues, joint pain, and various other symptoms. His approach emphasizes journaling about stressors and retraining the brain to manage emotions. The Mindbody Prescription is a widely influential book, credited with helping countless individuals heal over the years.
That evening at the cocktail party, listening to Rich’s story and observing Dany’s reaction, the realization struck me for the first time: perhaps I wasn’t physically ill. Perhaps, intense stress was the culprit, and my body was expressing this stress physically.
And indeed, significant stressors were present in my life. Three major ones, to be precise. First, my career transition. I had committed to pursuing medical school, a path demanding extensive and rigorous study.
Secondly, I was falling in love with Lisa, my now-wife. A joyous experience, yet marriage, even under the best circumstances, represents a significant life change. In my practice today, I often advise young male patients that relationship or parenting status changes are common triggers for chronic symptoms. Even positive life changes can induce considerable stress.
Finally, I was grappling with my faith. My wife is Christian, as am I now. But at that time, I was still navigating my spiritual beliefs. The weight of this uncertainty was substantial.
These three simultaneous life-altering events proved overwhelming for my psyche. Consequently, my body seemed to take over, bearing the burden of this stress. In retrospect, my body was, in a way, attempting to protect me by diverting attention from these overwhelming stressors, although I was far from recognizing this then. For a full year, I perceived my body as betraying me. Today, I understand differently; my body was trying to help me cope with a rapidly evolving life, shielding me from emotional discomfort.
So, on that spring evening in 1999, roughly a year after my first fall, I returned home from the party and retrieved my copy of The Mindbody Prescription. Reading it again brought profound clarity. I didn’t have nerve damage, muscle problems, or a chronic disease. I was a twenty-eight-year-old man confronting life changes that exceeded my coping capacity, and my body was externalizing this struggle. For the first time in a year, I felt a glimmer of hope that I might ultimately recover.
I awoke the next morning with renewed hope, but no immediate physical improvement. I went to work, endured the day, and returned home that evening, slightly discouraged but firm in my newfound conviction. An idea sparked. I went to the basement, dusted off my bicycle, and ventured out for a ride.
I hadn’t cycled in nearly a year due to pain and fear. But, fueled by determination and inspired by rereading Dr. John Sarno’s book, I went. I rode the mile on city streets to Chicago’s Lake Michigan bike path and turned north, towards downtown Chicago. As I accelerated, searing pain shot through my feet, but with each pedal stroke, I repeated to myself, “This is not a physical issue. This is not a physical issue.” The pain intensified. Each pedal stroke felt like a knife in my foot, radiating up my legs and into my shoulders. I battled my inner voice urging me to turn back. The intensity of the pain was almost unbearable, and I struggled to remember my purpose in cycling in the first place.
Somehow, I persevered. I clung to my mantra: “This is not a physical issue. This is not a physical issue.” Finally, about three miles into the ride, the pain began to subside. I continued all the way downtown, and the pain continued to diminish. I felt significantly better. By the time I returned home, the pain was reduced to about 20% of its initial intensity. I had successfully pushed my system past its breaking point of anxiety and pain – the point where my body could no longer sustain it. Arriving home, I was elated.
For a long time afterward, when recounting this story, I concluded with my triumphant bike ride: “I was healed. The end.” However, years later, while preparing a lecture on this topic, I rediscovered the journal I kept following that day. Reviewing the entries, I realized that for weeks afterward, I still experienced stress, worry, and suffering. Symptoms fluctuated – better on some days, worse on others. Doubt lingered as no physician had formally confirmed this mind-body diagnosis. On difficult days, my confidence wavered.
Yet, the journal entries gradually became less frequent. Weeks turned into months, doubts lessened, and reports of significant symptoms diminished. The tone of the entries became calmer, reflecting growing certainty. There were roughly six weeks of regular entries, followed by a six-week gap, then a final entry and nothing more. I truly was better.
I now emphasize to my patients that the path to wellness is a process.
That pivotal period occurred over two decades ago. Since then, I have cycled thousands of miles, completed four century rides (100 miles in a day), run, played tennis and golf, practiced yoga, and played actively with my children. I embrace physical challenges without hesitation. Headaches are a distant memory. Occasional back strains resolve within days. My physical well-being is no longer a source of constant concern.
In 2001, several years into my recovery, I commenced medical school, carrying with me the profound lesson learned during my illness: chronic physical symptoms can stem from psychological roots. I naively imagined sharing this insight would lead to widespread healing and happiness. Reality proved far more complex.
During my first patient interview in early 2003, the patient was in the emergency room with acute back pain. I had vowed to always inquire about stressors in patients experiencing pain. Upon asking, the patient confided her fear of being fired the next day. Her symptoms suddenly made perfect sense – overwhelming stress! I shared my understanding, and she nodded politely. Thinking it a brief, enlightening encounter, I informed my attending physician of my findings. He stared blankly, bewildered. “I don’t understand,” he said. “Did you order an MRI, or did you not order an MRI?” I realized then that sharing the truth about chronic pain would be a far greater challenge than anticipated.
Thus, I made a second vow: to dedicate myself to understanding the intricate connection between mind and body and its role in healing chronic symptoms. Over one hundred million Americans suffer from chronic pain, and they – and you – deserve enduring solutions beyond mere medication.
My practice and this blog are the culmination of my decades of learning since that first patient encounter. This is my contribution to addressing the chronic pain epidemic in America, a crisis costing billions and impacting countless lives annually.
Often, after my patients recover, they express gratitude for their symptoms, recognizing that their healing journey fostered unexpected personal growth. Hearing this, I smile knowingly. I wholeheartedly believe – with every fiber of my being – that my nine months of suffering served a purpose: to learn a fundamental truth. Our bodies possess an extraordinary capacity to express, through pain and other symptoms, the unspoken burdens we carry. I am grateful for my journey, as it has enabled me to fulfill my purpose: to help others heal and move forward with their lives, just as I have moved forward with mine, guided by the insights of Dr. John Sarno and my own lived experience.
