'For a decade, I rose at 5am every single day. Something profound happened when I stopped.'

For almost a decade, I rose at 5am, every single day.

Like a soldier called to duty, I'd leap up at the sound of my alarm, make up my 'bunk', and reach for the neatly folded pile of gym gear I'd laid out the night before.

I'd dress, grab my backpack and my lunch - both packed the previous evening - and head out the door, often into darkness, into rain, sometimes just as the sun was rising. Whatever the weather, I was walking (or running) to the gym, where I'd lift heavy weights, then take a spin or HIIT class. Every single day.

Afterwards, I'd shower, dress, head to the office for a long, busy day, before walking the 3km home, and cooking a healthy dinner. By the time all the prep for the following morning was done, I'd have precisely one hour to watch TV or read, before I had to go to bed in order to get enough sleep to do it all over again the next day.

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Sounds pretty joyless, doesn't it? Well, it didn't to me, not back then. It was essential for reasons that will soon become clear.

And actually, the military precision with which I lived my life, if you can really call it living, saw me through the first COVID lockdown with ease. Routine, rigidity and hyper-independence were key in surviving never-ending days of case numbers, vaccine rollouts and doomscrolling.

A part of me even weirdly enjoyed my world getting even smaller. Fewer variables, more control. Or so I thought.

It was the second lockdown that brought me to my knees. And I mean, literally. A mysterious, debilitating injury that wouldn't heal. Ferocious, electrical nerve pain I wouldn't wish on the devil himself. I won't bore you with the details of everything that's happened since, suffice to say, I've suffered two years of chronic, sometimes, unbearable pain, that has put paid to pretty much every single element of the life I used to live. 

There is no gym, so there is no 5am wake up. Sure, I could still set my alarm, but why would I give myself an extra four hours to 'sit' in pain before I start work? Not even I dislike myself that much. 

There is no control. Almost every single aspect of my life and the direction it's going in has been taken out of my hands and it's exposed my vulnerabilities in ways I never thought possible.

I've had three surgeries, and every single one of them has made the problem worse.

Physical treatments - physio, massage, steroid injections - nup, my body has not been having it. 

I've laid awake at night, thinking, am I broken? Is that it? Have all the years of pressure and self-criticism, refusal to rest, negative self-talk, downright abuse, finally taken their toll?

Has my body finally said, "f**k you! We're not doing this anymore."

Well, yes. But also, if I have a 'physical' problem, why hasn't medical treatment helped me? Why has every single physical intervention made my pain worse, made me more fearful than I've ever been in my life?

It was when I started to explore this question, that things got really interesting.

In Bessel Van Der Kolk's groundbreaking book, The Body Keeps the Score; he writes about how repressed trauma wreaks havoc in our bodies. He cites recent scientific studies that show how trauma literally reshapes the body and the brain, stalling the sufferers' capacity for pleasure, engagement, self-control, and trust. 

In Gabor Mate's When the Body Says No, he writes about, well, exactly that. The cost of hidden stress and emotions resulting in chronic illnesses, and pain you simply cannot imagine doesn't have a structural cause until you really start to look a bit deeper.

I am on the pages of both of these books. 

When I was 15, I suffered a trauma. One with a big 'T'. I haven't spoken about it, haven't processed it. Instead, I've let it consume me, allowed it to run through my veins like poison, shaping my personality and my patterns of behaviour. The entire trajectory of my life, in fact. I didn't move 10,000 miles from London to Australia just for the weather. 

Control, rigidity, hyper-independence, all keep me safe. They minimise the chances of someone hurting me again. Alcohol was a great numbing tool until it wasn't. So I switched to exercise. If my body was always moving, I never had to sit with my demons.

I've lived like this for 22 years. It's been like walking around wearing a backpack - not one filled with neatly folded clothes and a nutritionally balanced packed lunch - but one filled with rocks. And every year I keep my pain locked away, more rocks pile in. Then came a day, a moment, I can pinpoint an exact date and even a time, where my body could no longer take it.

I was by myself in my house in the middle of a global pandemic, unable to walk more than a few steps without agonising pain. 

And, physical suffering aside, without exercise to numb, I felt like I was being stuffed inside a tiny box, asked to confront all my very worst fears. I had no defences, no coping mechanisms, I was truly alone with all of it for the very first time in my life.

And yet, I still didn't make the connection between trauma and pain. Why would I? In the Western World, if you're sick, you go to a doctor. If you get badly injured, physio, or surgery will sort it. 

Only, when that doesn't work, when you've tried everything, every medical intervention and they have all failed, what do you do? Where do you turn when night after night, you lie awake worrying about what your future looks like? If you'll be able to get your own groceries? If you'll even want to leave the house or eat even if you can?

Well, that's when I finally turned inward. When I read these books. When I finally understood the connection between what I'd been through and where I am right now. You might think it's woo-woo, and that's absolutely understandable. I would have done even just six months ago. But this kind of suffering opens you up to possibilities in a way contentment never could. 

I'm on a new path to healing. I'm learning to be kinder to myself, to have self-compassion. I'm wrapping my arms around the 15-year-old me, around all the 'mes' of the years that have passed since. The 'me' who just needed to be loved but wouldn't accept it, wouldn't let it near me. The 'me' who has repeatedly thrown away relationships, opportunities, fun, because these things take away my sense of safety. The 'me' who did not deserve what happened but blamed myself endlessly for decades. 

Listen to Fill My Cup where Allira gently shares her best practise, what she calls 'Mirror Talk', for shifting our minds and bringing in more self love. Post continues below.

I have a wonderful therapist, who has already seen me cry more tears than people who have known me my entire life. Every time we have an 'ah-ha' moment in a session, it's like tossing a rock out of that backpack. We watch together as it sinks deep into the ocean.

Sometimes this unfamiliar road is dark and treacherous, and I don't even know if there is a final destination. On other days, I crest a hill, see the horizon, take a few rocks out of my backpack, and keep going.

I rise - not at 5am, but at 7 or even 8, whatever time my body needs, honouring it, loving it truly for the first time - and I keep going.

My pain - emotional and physical - is easing. Sometimes only for minutes or even seconds at a time. And I keep going.

The author of this story is known to Mamamia but has chosen to remain anonymous for privacy reasons.

If you think you may be experiencing depression or another mental health problem, please contact your general practitioner. If you're based in Australia, 24-hour support is available through Lifeline on 13 11 14 or beyondblue on 1300 22 4636.

Feature Image: Getty.