Recently, during a dinner outing with my wife and another couple, I mentioned my plan to try driving again (it's been several years since disabling neck pain and other medical problems made driving a thing of the past). One friend responded, "Great! You can finally be independent!" There was no ill-intention in her comment. Still, it felt like an eyelash jabbing my cornea. At the time, I just nodded. My "response" came later that evening when I was alone in my head:

So, let me get this straight: Out of the four adults sitting in this restaurant booth, only three are independent? The three who drive?

I don't think so.

"I did it myself!" It's ingrained in us. Just look at a baby waddling toward her parent on her own for the first time. She responds to excitable feedback, and the prideful scene is juicier than those yummy fat rolls on her delicious baby legs. As adults, we still feel joy from solo accomplishments (even more so when we've fallen on our tush a few times en route).

But what happens when we can no longer do things on our own and our Western value of independence is threatened? How do we contend with the psychological problems that arise from valuing ourselves (and others) based on our learned ideal of self-reliance?

In adulthood, our struggle with autonomy often begins with aging. Hearing, vision, or mobility changes can disrupt daily activities; sometimes to the extent that we question our own identity.

For me, grappling with independence began earlier, smack in the middle of my forties. Pain from failed spine surgeries and the subsequent onset of CRPS became disabling and, sadly, I needed to put my busy psychotherapy practice on hold. I spent days and nights struggling in pain, trying to figure out how to do simple tasks. Helping adults and children had been the focus of my entire career; now I couldn't even help myself. If I couldn't cut my own food at dinner; if I no longer had my work and I wasn't able to drive, what did that mean for me?

It meant I was no longer the independent person I had been all my life. At least that's what I thought in the beginning when grief adhered to me like sap on a pine tree. This grief was dripping with that pin-sharp word my friend mentioned. Independence and I have been intertwined for as long as I can remember. I dug up this poem I wrote when I was eight years old:

Once there was an elf
She climbed upon a shelf
She did it by herself!
She helped another elf!

This early exercise in self-expression communicates that Little Elf's mind wasn't really on the goods awaiting her atop that mountainous piece of furniture. No, she was all about determined self-reliance. It made her feel like she could do anything those characters in storybooks could do; even make her way up a lofty shelf full of books! This desire never changed; neither did her value of helping others. Some elves just know they're meant to become therapists and help people get perspective on their inner-s(elves).

Disability prompted my own quest to re-evaluate life, from both an internal and societal stance. I developed a closer relationship to interdependence, but also stayed true to independence. I was able to embrace both by redefining what the latter truly means--and what it doesn't. I realized independence isn't driving to an appointment. That's convenience. It's not lifting a bag or walking. That's mobility. It isn't hearing, or talking. Those are communication modalities.

​Independence is about personal agency. When we make choices and take action from a place of confidence and intention, we're in control of our lives. Independent minds assume responsibility and exercise resilience amidst difficult circumstances.

So, as it turns out, I never actually lost my independence. What I lost was a life of relative ease...something we can all relate to (or will relate to in the future, merely as a result of the aging process). Grief from this will creep up and jab us all in the eye sometimes, so we must acknowledge it and respond with self-compassion. Only then, can we befriend that elf within us who finds creative ways to keep climbing--always lending a helping hand along the way.

Talk about the 1990 Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) has surfaced since the recent death of President Bush who, despite opposition from his staff, signed the ADA into legislation. The civil rights law, prohibiting discrimination against persons with disabilities, moved forward because of the disability advocates who marched, sat, spoke and fought for it in the first place. Still, nearly three decades later, people living with disabilities know the struggle still exists. 

I recently caught up via email with a local friend I hadn't seen in weeks. "I assume you're doing well, since you're going to Arizona this weekend," she wrote. A reasonable assumption, but not quite on point. Things have been hard--really hard--since a recent RSD/CRPS spread which, for now, I'll sum up with own my initial response: Are you kidding me?!! Despite my body's turmoil, I wanted to attend to a part of my life separate from the pain, so I made the choice to travel. 

We find the cheapest flight available, which means changing planes in LA and no checked luggage, but it's doable. We head down south to visit family in Arizona, family that is unable to come our way due to their own medical issues. After the first of two short flights, we de-board (my wife, of course, carrying the physical load). Just outside the terminal gate we learn where to go for our transfer, down the short walkway and to the shuttle, easy peasy. Upon arrival, we breathe easy knowing our second plane gate is just ahead. 

We walk through the doorway to…what?!! A sense of confusion; imprisonment. Nothing but a huge flight of stairs leading up to our gate; no elevator or escalator in this closed-off space. Just a ridiculous amount of stairs, loads of people who seem to be skipping upward, and our own dropped jaws. Still, I keep looking ahead like it's an open fridge and I'm waiting for something other than yogurt and condiments to appear.

Whoa, I took what I thought would be a brief hiatus to focus on our move to Oregon earlier this year and—poof!—became a blogger-with-neglected-blog cliche. But, I’m here now on this crisp, clear morning and so are you, so…welcome, and thank you!

We’re here in the midst of holiday season. Gathering with loved ones, whether joyful or stressful (or a likely combination of both), can lead to an increase in pain. Inability to participate because of pain, as we all know, can be distressing and sometimes heartbreaking. So, it’s time more than ever to step up the self-care and attune to our bodies and our minds.

I’ve done an ultra-modified yoga-pilates-physical therapy fusion at home for years. My practice, born of necessity and desperation, is partly comprised of various techniques I’ve picked up over the years. The rest of it consists of a bunch of things my body just wants to do.

Lately, my body has been telling me to switch it up and—wouldn’t you know it?— I saw a flyer for an adaptive yoga class. My first class led to a flare-up, a painful “Told you so!” echoing from my limbs, reminding me to be more aware. Clearly, I would require adaptive adaptations, but with the thoughtful help of my two new teachers, I’d make it work.

When we got to a pose that was too painful to do in any form, one of the teachers suggested I imagine myself doing it. She explained to the class that we can benefit from simply preparing our bodies for the positions and visualizing them. So, I engaged my core, focused on my breath, and did the pose in mind only. In other words, I acted as if I was physically moving my body.
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The suggested modification reminded me of the impact visualization has had in my life for so many years, especially since pain from CRPS and a complex spine condition progressed. Those of us in pain act "as if...” for the benefit of others all the time (behaving as if we’re not in pain, for example). So, think of visualizing as a way to project an “as if...” image solely for yourself. If your leg is cold and hurting, imagine it’s swaddled in a soft, warm blanket. If a venue (or a person) is overly stimulating, take slow breaths and gaze at the ocean in your mind.

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