Inquisitive.me

Almost every physical therapist has a story—whether it’s bouncing back from their own injury, being inspired by an incredible therapist, or navigating the maze of the healthcare system themselves. For me, it was the latter.

Back when I was waitressing, before I became a physiotherapist, my body hit its breaking point. It was the summer right before COVID turned everything upside down, and my left shoulder just gave out. It wasn’t just pain—I felt like I’d lost all strength. The weird part? This was the same hand I used every day to carry trays loaded with drinks and plates. It didn’t add up—this was my stronger hand, my go-to as a waitress.

The Mystery of Weakness 🦄

Here’s the thing: my muscles weren’t sore—they just felt weak after a few hours on the job. Lifting my arm became a struggle, like I was carrying a bag of stones hanging off it. At the time, I had no idea what was going on—I do now—but back then, all I could do was go see a doctor.

The doctor checked me out and said my back wasn’t just stiff—it was as hard as a surfboard. His solution? He sent me to a masseur to loosen up the muscles in my back and arm. According to him, once that was sorted, the pain and weakness in my arm would disappear.

When Treatment Makes Things Worse 📉

It didn’t help—in fact, it got worse. Turns out, those tight muscles were my body’s way of protecting my nervous system. When the masseur forced them to loosen up, that protection vanished, and the muscles pressing on my nerves went into complete chaos.

This happens a lot with my patients, too. Many think that a tight muscle just needs to be loosened. It often involves pressing into the muscle, massaging it out, stretching it, and causing unnecessary pain. But the body isn’t tensing up those muscles to hurt us—it’s trying to protect something by limiting our movement. When we release those tight muscles, we are essentially taking away that protective shield.

A Tight Muscle Is Often a Weak Muscle 🦾

Here’s something I know now that I wish someone had told me back then: a tight muscle is often a weak muscle. The goal isn’t just to stretch it or loosen it up—it’s to strengthen it so it can do its job properly.

But no one explained that to me at the time.

Carrying More Than Just Trays 🤹

That summer, I was often working double shifts. My colleague was more interested in cracking jokes with guests or disappearing mid-shift than sharing the load. So I pushed through, taking on more than my body could handle—physically and mentally.

But no healthcare professional stopped to ask how I was feeling. No one noticed how helpless I felt. No one offered stability, support, or even basic education about what might be going on. The only suggestion I got was to take sick leave. But in the middle of the busy summer season, that felt impossible. I didn’t want to let my boss down. I’ve always given my best, and at that point in life, I was still trying to please everyone—even at the cost of my own health.

I know better now.

No Relief in Sight 🥀

The massages didn’t help—at least not in the way the doctor had promised. I can’t even remember clearly whether the masseur sent me back to the doctor or just let me go. And honestly, I’m not trying to blame him. But the truth is: my pain only got worse.

Work became even more stressful. Not just because my colleague didn’t change his behavior, but because now I was in pain—constantly. It was one more thing I had to push through.

Burnout in Disguise 🎭

I was completely drained. My entire body hurt, and every movement felt like torture. Still, I forced myself to smile in front of guests. Most didn’t notice. But the regulars—the ones who really knew me—could see right through it.

Looking back, I can say without hesitation: this was the most frustrating time of my life.

Eventually, one of my colleagues stepped in. I must’ve looked terrible that day—shoulders slumped forward, dark circles under my eyes, and a mood that screamed burnout. She encouraged me to see another doctor. Shortly after, I collapsed at work. My body had had enough.

But I still refused to listen. My stubbornness didn’t help me here. It only delayed my healing.

More Pills, Still No Answers 💊

That second doctor visit didn’t change much. Once again, they only treated the symptoms. No questions. No real curiosity about what was going on. Just another quick fix.

So I ended up on painkillers—multiple times a week. From the outside, I probably looked like a junkie. Honestly, I felt like one too. But at the time, it was the only thing that gave me even a little bit of relief.

The Night Everything Collapsed 💥

After three sleepless nights, I hit my lowest point. The pain was so unbearable that the doctor gave me an injection—a cocktail so strong I couldn’t even drive myself home. In fact, he had to bring me back in the middle of the night because I wasn’t in any state to be alone, let alone behind the wheel.

The sensation afterward was surreal—I couldn’t feel the ground beneath me, almost like I was levitating. It was deeply unsettling, like being disconnected from my own body. I can’t say for sure, but it reminded me of what I imagine knockout drops must feel like. And on top of all that? The doctor handed me a prescription for antidepressants. No explanation—just “here you go.”

A Prescription Without a Conversation 🗣️

Today, I understand that antidepressants are sometimes prescribed for chronic pain because they can help dampen nerve sensitivity. But back then, I didn’t get that explanation. I still don’t know if the doctor gave them to me for my pain or because he thought I was depressed. Intonation lies on “thought”—he never asked me valid questions to get a confirmation. It was based on his belief. Which, if I think about it now, is pretty wild.

To be honest, the whole thing felt careless. There was no real evaluation. No meaningful questions. Just assumptions based on the fact that I was in pain.

I Wasn’t Depressed—Just Defeated 🏳️

Here’s the thing: when you’re sleep-deprived, in constant pain, and getting no real help from the people who are supposed to support you—of course you feel low. But that wasn’t depression.

I’ve been through depression before. This was different. This was helplessness. This was pain. This was feeling invisible and dismissed by the very system that should’ve caught me when I fell.

No one was asking questions. No one was really listening.

Why I’ll Never Forget That Time 🧠

That period left a mark on me—not just physically, but emotionally. I was overwhelmed and lost. And the support I needed simply wasn’t there.

But that experience also changed me. It shaped the kind of physiotherapist I am today. I learned to look beyond symptoms, to see the whole person, not just their body.

How It Changed My Approach 🔄

Back then, I realized something had to change—not just for me, but for others like me. Now, I make it my mission to treat people, not just problems.

Often, I find myself offering advice without ever laying a hand on a patient—because sometimes words can heal more than touch.

And honestly? I wish I’d had someone like that. Someone who saw me. Someone who took the time to explain what was going on. Someone who wasn’t afraid to say, “I don’t know, but let’s figure it out together.”

Saying the Hard Things ⚠️

Today, I sometimes have to say things my patients don’t want to hear. I bring up difficult topics. Not to overstep—but because I care. If they’re not ready to talk, that’s okay. But at least they know that I’ve thought about it, and I’m holding space for them.

Finally, Someone Asked How I Was Doing 💬

After that hellish trip home from the doctor and a night of medicated sleep, I called my cousin to ask if she could drive me to pick up my car. She agreed—but when she saw me, she didn’t drive to my car. She drove straight to her house instead.

I must have looked worse than I felt, because she immediately got her mother, my aunt. They were both genuinely worried. My aunt took one look at me and firmly said, “You’re absolutely not driving anywhere.” They retrieved my car themselves—but they didn’t let me out of their sight.

They were the first people who really asked me what was going on. And not just on the surface. They knew me—knew that I’m usually a funny, happy person with a smile on my face—and I wasn’t acting like that at all. So, I told them. I told them about the pain, my struggles, the situation at work, and how the so-called treatment was only making things worse.

It was such a relief to finally talk about it. To be heard. To feel seen. But even though it brought emotional comfort, it didn’t take the physical pain away. They were there for me—hugging me, comforting me—but I still felt something was missing. A few days later, I called my mom in tears. I lived over 500 kilometers (310 miles) from my parents’ home, but in that moment, I realized what I truly needed: the kind of safety and comfort only parents can give.

So I drove home.

Reclaiming My Body, One Step at a Time🚶‍♀️

My brother, already a doctor at the time, examined me and finally gave me something I hadn’t had in months—an explanation. He helped ease the pain and pulled me out of that vicious cycle I’d been stuck in.

I stayed with my parents for about two weeks, just focusing on recovery. No stress, no obligations—just rest, care, and quiet. My brother encouraged me to see a physical therapist afterward to continue getting better. But that meant returning to the very system that had failed me in the first place.

The Six-Month Struggle ⏳

Over the course of about six months, I had seen doctors, massage therapists, and physiotherapists. I wasn’t looking for a miracle—I just wanted to be an active participant in my recovery. I remember asking the masseur if something like yoga could help or if it was okay to do a light workout. He told me my muscles were too tight, that there wasn’t enough space for them to grow. That’s complete and utter nonsense. I know that now—I didn’t know that back then, so I believed it.

Here’s why that advice doesn’t hold up: your muscles aren’t tight because they don’t have enough space. They’re tight because they’re overwhelmed by what you’re asking of them, because your nervous system is overreacting, or because they’ve simply been overused and need rest. It’s not about space—it’s about capacity, load, and recovery.

A Therapy Approach That Didn’t Fit 🧩

So I turned to my physiotherapist for guidance. But her approach wasn’t much better. Just like the masseur, she focused on pressing painful spots, handing out generic exercises, and giving me advice that didn’t consider me—my lifestyle, my interests, or my goals.

At one point, I asked if I could try climbing, something I love. Instead, she suggested swimming—something I don’t particularly enjoy. That moment sticks with me because it showed exactly what was wrong: the treatment plan had nothing to do with me as a person.

When I started becoming a physiotherapist, I was sure my approach would be completely different. If you can’t get your patient on board, they won’t do the work—simple as that. I was actively asking to be involved, to participate, which should’ve been an easy win for any therapist. But she didn’t see that.

Looking back, that was a red flag. I wasn’t being difficult—I was offering a starting point, something I enjoyed and would actually commit to. That kind of buy-in is invaluable in recovery. But it was ignored.

Trusting My Body, Finding Small Wins 🌱

Yes, sometimes it makes sense to avoid certain movements during recovery. Temporary, of course. But this wasn’t one of those times—I knew my body better than they did. I tried swimming, just to be fair, but it didn’t help. So I went climbing anyway, carefully, mindfully. And I felt better. Not completely healed, but better. Which was already a huge win for me.

Later I tried running—again, against my physiotherapist’s advice—and it didn’t go well. But I didn’t push through stubbornly. I simply switched to walking. That was fine. Manageable. A small win, again.

The First Snowfall and A New Beginning ⛷️

I remember that year’s first snowfall so vividly. I’ve always loved snow. The first flakes always make me smile. One day, a friend asked if I wanted to join him on a ski tour. He knew about my condition, and when I hesitated, he said, “Let’s just give it a try. We can always turn back.”

So we did. We didn’t go far. But we went far enough to carve a few turns in fresh powder—and for the first time in a long time, I felt free.

Small Wins, Big Relief 🎉

After those small wins—and without the stress from work—I felt so much better. Relieved, lighter. Things were finally starting to turn around.

But when I went back to the next physiotherapy session a couple of days later, that’s when my therapist dropped a bomb: “I saw your picture on WhatsApp. Went for a ski tour. Seems like you’re not in pain anymore.”

Her tone wasn’t congratulatory. She wasn’t happy for me. It felt more like blame.

The Cold Shoulder 🥶

You know those types of friends who pretend to celebrate with you, but deep down feel bitter or resentful? It had that same energy. I had just taken a step forward—and instead of encouragement, I got judgment. Apparently, she didn’t know anything about why amplifying joy in therapy matters.

And that moment taught me something I’ll never forget.

Let the Patient Lead 🗺️

I learned to never dismiss what a patient suggests. If someone brings up an activity they enjoy and it doesn’t make their pain worse, I say go for it. Why?

Because doing something you love gives you confidence and self-efficacy. And confidence and self-efficacy plays a huge role in recovery. That ski tour didn’t heal me, but it helped me believe I could heal—and that was powerful.

Taking Matters into My Own Hands 🧪

After that session, I was completely fed up. Done. I decided I’d take recovery into my own hands.

I approached it like a science experiment, just like when I was studying biology. I had a basic understanding of anatomy and physiology, so I dusted that off and dove into YouTube and books. My body became my lab.

I tried one thing after another. If it helped, I kept it. If not, I came up with a new hypothesis and moved on. It was trial and error—but it worked. Slowly but surely, I found my way.

The Spark That Changed Everything 🌟

During this phase, something shifted. As I figured out what helped and what didn’t, an idea started forming.

And then my brother said the words that lit the spark: “Why don’t you start studying physiotherapy? What you’re doing right now is exactly what a physio does.”

That was it. I applied for the entrance exam, got in, and eventually became the kind of physiotherapist I once needed.

Why I’m Sharing This 🔗

So why am I telling you all of this?

Because my story sometimes helps my patients. It shows them I’ve been there—not just physically, but emotionally, too. I’ve been in pain. I’ve been misunderstood. I’ve faced doctors and therapists who didn’t listen.

And now I am a therapist—but one who gets it. One who cares.

Maybe You’ll See Yourself in This 👤

Maybe parts of this story sound familiar. Maybe you’re a patient, too, trying to make sense of your own pain. Or maybe your story is entirely different—but you’ve had your own moments of struggle that helped you find your path.

We’re so afraid of failure, of hardship, of being wrong. But often, those are the very things that shape us. Struggles aren’t always setbacks. Sometimes, they’re signposts.

And sometimes, they point you exactly where you’re meant to go.

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📝 Key takeaways

• Don’t jump to conclusions or throw out random solutions—start by truly listening.
• See the person behind the problem; they’re not just a diagnosis or a condition.
• If you need help, ask for it—and don’t wait too long.
• Pay close attention to your body; it’s always trying to communicate with you.
• Seek comfort and treat your body with kindness and care.
• When you’re in pain, focus on activities and habits that bring you happiness and relief.
• And please, avoid randomly stretching or pressing tight muscles—strengthen them instead.

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Thanks for spending this time with me. Keep exploring, stay open to new ideas, and remember—growth is a journey, not a destination.

Take care,

Carina 🦊