What I Wish I’d Known at the Start of My Recovery Journey
- Jean Itier
- Nov 7
- 8 min read
This month’s guest blogger is Jean Itier, a chronic pain recoveree and coach, who shares the lessons about mind-body healing he'd love to go back and tell his younger self.
When I Thought Recovery Meant Fixing My body
I used to wake up every morning scanning my body for what pain I might be in that day and where it might be.
Was it my back, my hip, my shoulder? Every sensation felt like a warning sign for how the day might unfold.
I believed that in order to recover I had to find the right stretch, the right posture, the right diagnosis or the right therapist.
I was determined to fix myself through effort and discipline in the same way I’d always achieved everything else in my life.
But the harder I tried, the worse things seemed to get.
Pain became the centre of my world. I stretched, strengthened, adjusted, and breathed. I analysed every movement, every twinge. I avoided certain movements so as to not make it worse. I was doing everything ‘right’ and yet, my pain seemed to be getting louder.
At the time, it never crossed my mind that perhaps my body wasn’t the enemy.
That maybe the more I tried to control it, the more trapped I became.
The Misconceptions That Kept Me Stuck
Looking back, I can see how my beliefs were fuelling the cycle.
I thought that because I felt like I was injured, there must be physical damage.
When my osteopath told me that he did not think there was anything wrong, I felt confused; almost dismissed.
How could pain not be caused by damage? If not, then what was it?
I thought that correcting my posture or muscle imbalances would solve everything.
I bought ergonomic chairs, adjusted my alignment, did endless strengthening exercises and stretches.
But I was still sore, frustrated, and scared.
I thought that pain following movement meant I had harmed myself.
I would try to exercise and then the following day, I would feel worse. To me, this was proof I had done something wrong; that I’d somehow made whatever was happening in my back even worse.
I ended up tiptoeing through life, sitting carefully, walking carefully.
My world grew smaller and smaller as fear replaced trust.
I thought that the intensity of my pain must mean something was seriously wrong.
I googled my symptoms frantically and self-diagnosed the worst explanation I could find. Surely pain that strong had to come from serious injury or illness.
These beliefs seemed so rational to me, yet they were quietly reinforcing the message that my body wasn’t safe. I didn’t know it then, but my nervous system was stuck in protection mode; trying to guard me from emotional pain by creating physical pain instead.
Discovering a New Way of Healing
My turning point came when I stumbled upon The Way Out by Alan Gordon.
This book introduced me to Pain Reprocessing Therapy - an approach that reframes chronic pain as a neuroplastic process: the brain misinterpreting safe signals as dangerous ones.
At first, I was sceptical. I didn’t want to believe my pain was “in my head.” Of course, that wasn’t what anyone was saying; it was just how I heard the message back then.
But the more I read, the more something began to make sense.
If my pain could disappear in moments of deep focus, or even when I had COVID (so distracted by other symptoms),then perhaps the pain wasn’t related to structural damage after all. Perhaps it was my brain’s way of keeping me safe.
This was the first time I felt curiosity instead of fear.
Curiosity about my sensations, my emotions, my history.
I began to wonder if my pain wasn’t something to fix, but something to understand.
That shift from control to curiosity changed everything for me.
Facing My Fear of Hypnotherapy
When my therapist first suggested hypnotherapy, along with a few other tools, I froze.
I immediately pictured stage shows, swinging watches, people clucking like chickens, barking like dogs.
I was terrified of losing control, of saying something embarrassing, of unravelling in front of someone else.
I’d spent years keeping everything together.
The idea of ‘letting go’ sounded like a recipe for disaster.
But what I didn’t know then was that hypnotherapy isn’t about losing control; it’s about finding a different kind of control.
In my first session, I remember being surprised by how normal hypnotherapy felt. I wasn’t asleep or unconscious. I could hear every word, I could stop at any moment. My therapist simply guided my attention inward, helping me connect with sensations and emotions I had been avoiding.
It was gentle, quiet, and profoundly safe.
I realised that hypnotherapy was not mind control; it was guided self-connection.
It allowed me to communicate with my body in a new way, to access calm and safety from within.
Over time, I noticed that what hypnotherapy did was exactly what Pain Reprocessing Therapy aims for: it helps the brain and body speak the same language again.
It taught my nervous system that it was safe to relax, safe to feel, safe to let go.
What I Wish I’d Known Earlier in My Journey
There are so many things I wish I could tell my past self; the one sitting on the sofa with tears of frustration, searching online for answers.
Here are a few pieces of knowledge that changed everything for me:
1. The harder you try, the longer it takes.
I treated recovery like a project to master. I wanted to do every tool perfectly, every practice right. But the nervous system doesn’t respond to effort, it responds to ease. Healing began when I stopped striving and started softening.
2. Flare-ups are not failures.
Each time my pain spiked, I thought I’d undone all my progress.
But flare-ups are just the nervous system’s way of checking in - part of the normal rewiring process.
They’re not proof that you’ve regressed, but opportunities to practise calm and show your brain that you’re safe.
3. Progress isn’t measured by pain levels.
For a long time, I believed recovery meant controlling my pain - fewer bad days, less discomfort, more certainty.
But true healing isn’t about control; it’s about curiosity.
It’s not measured by how little you hurt, but by how much trust you bring to the moments when you are hurting.
The real progress came when I stopped chasing ‘better’ days and started noticing peaceful ones; moments of laughter, presence, and ease.
Each time I responded to pain with curiosity instead of panic, I was teaching my brain safety, and that’s what healing truly is.
4. You can’t think your way out of pain.
For most of my life, I had relied on analysis to solve problems. If something felt wrong, I reasoned my way through it. So naturally, I tried to do the same with pain. I read, researched, and rationalised because I was convinced that if I could just understand enough, I could fix it.
But pain doesn’t live in the thinking mind; it lives in the body.
And the body doesn’t speak in logic, it speaks in sensation, emotion, and movement.
Real healing began when I stopped trying to figure it out and started to feel it out.
When I let myself experience what was happening, not as a problem to solve, but as a message to listen to.
At first, it was uncomfortable. My instinct was to tighten, to resist, to analyse. But over time, I learned that safety doesn’t come from understanding pain; it comes from feeling safe while experiencing it.
That shift - from thinking to sensing, from controlling to allowing - was the beginning of true healing for me.
5. There is nothing wrong with you.
I’ll never forget the moment that realisation landed quietly during a therapy session.
For years, I’d been searching for what was ‘wrong’ with me: a diagnosis, a damaged disc, a hidden imbalance, something I could point to and fix.
But what if there was nothing to fix?
What if my body wasn’t broken, but simply doing its best to protect me?
When I said those words out loud: “There’s nothing wrong with me”, something inside me softened. It was as if my whole system exhaled for the first time in years.
I began to see that healing wasn’t about correcting a fault; it was about remembering that I was perfectly imperfect.
My pain wasn’t proof of damage. It was proof of care, a signal from a body that had been trying to keep me safe in the only way it knew how.
That shift changed everything. From that point on, I stopped fighting myself and started listening instead.
6. Vulnerability is healing.
For a long time, I thought strength meant holding everything together: keeping a calm face while chaos swirled inside.
But the truth is, healing began the moment I allowed myself to fall apart.
When I stopped performing strength and started allowing softness.
When I cried - really cried - not out of despair, but from finally letting myself feel.
Letting someone else witness my pain felt terrifying at first. But it was in those moments of being seen, held, and accepted that something inside me began to shift.
My nervous system learned what safety truly feels like.
Vulnerability wasn’t weakness; it was medicine.
My husband’s quiet presence, his willingness to stay with me in the storm, taught me what unconditional love looks like. From there, I learned to offer that same love to myself; especially to the parts I used to hide.
7. Healing requires patience and curiosity.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that healing doesn’t happen on command. It unfolds in its own rhythm: slower, softer, and often in ways we can’t measure.
For years, I wanted certainty. I wanted to know when I’d be better, how long it would take, and what I had to do to make it happen faster. But the body doesn’t work on deadlines, and the nervous system doesn’t heal under pressure.
Real progress came when I replaced the need for certainty with curiosity.
Instead of asking, “When will this end?” I began asking, “What is my body trying to show me right now?”
Some days, the answer was rest. Other days, it was movement, laughter, or simply noticing that I could sit in discomfort without fear.
Over time, those small moments of patience and curiosity rewired more than my brain, they rebuilt my relationship with myself.
Healing, I’ve come to see, isn’t a destination. It’s a way of being with what is - with compassion, trust, and a willingness to stay open, even when it’s uncomfortable.
And in that openness, the body finds what it’s been seeking all along: safety, ease, and peace.
The Science of Safety
For those who are curious about the ‘how’ of my healing journey, here’s what I’ve come to understand.
Hypnotherapy, alongside Pain Reprocessing Therapy and other mind-body tools, helps the brain shift from a state of threat to one of safety.
It activates the parasympathetic nervous system — the body’s natural healing mode — while quieting the amygdala, the brain’s alarm centre.
You’re not unconscious or under someone’s control. You’re fully present, simply guided to move beyond the overthinking mind and access the deeper, calmer parts of yourself.
In essence, it’s a way of teaching the body to remember what safety feels like.
And safety, more than anything else, is the foundation of healing.
The Freedom I Found in Letting Go
Today, I no longer measure my days by how much I hurt.
I measure them by how much I trust; how often I laugh, move freely, or feel peaceful in my own skin.
Today, my life looks very different, I am completely pain free. I no longer wake up thinking about pain. I hike, swim, practise yoga, do capoeira, travel, and enjoy a full, joyful life. I feel strong, peaceful, and free in my body. Healing gave me my life back in a way I once feared I might never feel again.
Healing didn’t come from fixing my body or mastering techniques.
It came from letting go; from allowing, softening, and listening.
If you’re at the beginning of your own recovery, I want you to know this:
You are not broken.
Your pain is real.
And your body is doing its best to protect you.
When you stop trying to control it and start meeting it with curiosity and compassion, you begin to see what I eventually did:
Healing isn’t something you do, it’s something you allow.
