Mindset – Pain 2 Possibilities

A heartfelt thank you to the wise and wonderful Alesia Briggs for generously sharing her time and for the thoughtful, meaningful conversation about my health journey. Alesia is an incredible coach, and I’m so grateful for her curiosity, compassion, and the opportunity to share my story through her eyes.

You find out that knowing the science does not make you immune to being human. I help people understand persistent pain, work with their nervous systems, and find a way forward. Then I was diagnosed with granulomatosis with polyangiitis, or GPA, a rare form of vasculitis, and suddenly I needed to draw on that knowledge myself.

There was fear. There was uncertainty. There were moments when I could not take in what doctors were telling me. Being a coach did not mean I should somehow handle all of that perfectly.

The tools helped, absolutely. But they did not give me every answer. They helped me take the next step while I was still frightened, still learning, and still very much a person going through something she had never chosen.

There is so much information emerging about pain, and it does not always reach the people who need it. Some people have never been introduced to the newer science of pain. Their doctors may not have had much training in it either. That is not about blaming anyone. It is about recognizing a gap.

During lockdown in 2020, I spent more time learning alongside other pain providers, and that deepened my work enormously. I love a good conversation, so a podcast felt like a natural way to share what I was learning.

Reaching fifty episodes was a happy accident. I had not pictured that milestone when I started, and I have learned a tremendous amount along the way.

My interest started well before this diagnosis. I am also a Pilates instructor, and people often came to movement looking for something that felt safe and accommodating.

One woman, Michelle, taught me so much. She had lived through fibromyalgia, cancer, and a long list of other health challenges. Getting to know her helped me recognize how many parts of the illness experience were not being addressed.

I had also experienced migraines and headaches, and my mother lived with migraines. So pain was not unfamiliar to me, even though I was not living with constant pain myself.

What fascinated me was everything beyond the biological piece: the psychological experience, the nervous system, and the impact of difficult life experiences. Getting sick made that wider picture even more real.

They are not interchangeable. Someone can have debilitating persistent pain without imaging providing a clear explanation. With an illness like mine, doctors eventually identified a disease process affecting my body.

But there is overlap in the uncertainty, the fear of a flare, the changes in daily life, and the way we relate to our bodies. Living with either can affect how alert we feel to symptoms and how confident we feel about doing ordinary things.

So far, I have not been living with persistent pain from vasculitis, although there was certainly pain during my illness. What has helped is recognizing that pain education and nervous system tools can support my experience without replacing the medical treatment I need.

At first, I thought I had the same cold or flu-like bug my family had. My husband and children got through it. I seemed to be getting through it too, until I was not.

I travelled to Winnipeg with my daughter and kept going downhill. I lost about ten pounds, could not keep food or fluids down, was coughing terribly, and became so exhausted I could barely get off the couch. That was definitely not me.

When I went to hospital, lung cancer was raised as a possibility almost immediately. Hearing that was frightening, especially before we had a clear explanation.

Then more problems appeared: my lungs, my kidneys, a major digestive tract bleed, fluid buildup, and concern about my heart. It was a cascade of things, rather than one straightforward symptom.

I was hospitalized for about six and a half weeks. It took roughly four weeks before there was a clearer understanding of what was happening, and even then there were competing possibilities.

I had care across two hospitals, with different teams contributing. I am grateful for that. The benefit is that you have people bringing different perspectives. The difficult part is that you also have a lot of information and opinions to process.

Eventually, my nephrologist came in with a look I will never forget. She thought she knew what it was: a particular form of vasculitis. That became GPA. For general background, the National Institute of Arthritis and Musculoskeletal and Skin Diseases provides an overview of vasculitis.

Having a name did not make everything easy, but it gave us a direction.

I kept reminding myself that a possibility was not the same thing as an answer. We did not know whether it was cancer. We did not yet know exactly what it was. I needed to avoid treating the most frightening explanation as a confirmed fact.

That is much easier to say than to do. Sometimes you need someone beside you to gently bring you back to what is actually known.

I was not trying to tell myself that nothing serious was happening. Something serious clearly was happening. I was trying to stop my mind from adding certainty where the medical team did not yet have it.

For me, that distinction made the waiting a little more manageable.

Initially, my husband and I agreed not to mention cancer until we knew more. We wanted to protect them from a possibility that might not be the diagnosis.

But uncertainty created its own fear. When my daughter saw the worry on my husband's face at the hospital, she thought I had died. That was a painful reminder that families fill in the blanks when they do not know what is happening.

We decided to include our children in conversations with the doctors, and for our family, that helped enormously. They could hear information directly and understand more of what was going on.

I would not assume every family needs exactly the same approach. The useful conversation is: What do you want to know, and how can we help you feel included?

Honestly, no. I knew brain fog was real through migraines and through working with people who experience it. But this was different. I was amazed by how difficult it became to absorb and organize information.

My husband was incredible. He is an engineer and a numbers person, and he listened, asked questions, and helped clarify things when I could not. Later, when I had questions, he could often remind me what had been said.

He also has a rare disorder, so we had to protect his health, including making sure he went home to sleep.

Not everyone has a partner who can do that. A trusted friend, another family member, or an agreed recording of an appointment may help preserve information. The point is not to expect yourself to remember everything while seriously unwell.

One was understanding that symptoms were happening in a context. There were real medical problems, and pain was part of that experience. I did not need to turn every sensation into a new story about everything getting worse.

During procedures, I would remind myself that something could be frightening while I was also being cared for. That helped me move through the moment rather than treating every piece of information as another threat.

I also looked for small things that were neutral or good. I was not forcing myself to feel grateful for failing health. That would have felt impossible.

But my family was there. Someone was helping me. There were still points of connection. Those were things I could genuinely hold on to.

The first was getting a diagnosis and beginning treatment directed at it. That felt like moving from survival toward a first step forward.

The next was noticing that treatment was helping enough that I could start thinking about home. I had been through transfusions, procedures, and a lot of difficult days. I had also been nearby when other patients experienced traumatic events. I was ready to leave before my team felt I was ready.

Thinking about sleeping at home gave me something concrete to look toward.

Neither turning point meant the whole journey was resolved. They mattered because they made the next part imaginable. Sometimes that is what hope looks like: not a complete answer, just a believable next step.

Being told I was in remission was wonderful news. It did not mean everything had returned to how it was before.

My kidney function remains very low, and a kidney transplant is part of the conversation. There is also the possibility of relapse. So I am learning to live with good news and ongoing uncertainty at the same time.

What helps most is talking with my specialists. Each conversation gives me a deeper understanding, and that makes things a little less frightening.

I may never know why this happened. I would love an explanation that told me exactly how to prevent it happening again, but I may not get one. I can still learn about my situation and participate in the plan for my care.

The questions that sit in your mind at night deserve space in the appointment. We often worry about “what if” without actually asking our medical team what would happen next.

I find it helpful to prepare questions beforehand, especially when appointment time is limited:

• What might a relapse look like for me?
• Which changes should prompt me to contact the team?
• What should I do if those changes happen?
• What does my family need to understand about the plan?

A plan cannot promise that nothing will go sideways. But knowing the next step is different from facing an unknown with no direction. Each conversation has helped me feel more informed rather than simply more watchful.

I came home in a wheelchair and could barely manage two steps. After weeks in hospital, I had lost a great deal of strength. Having a diagnosis and treatment plan was essential, but I still needed to work out how to return to things I wanted to do.

That is where pacing became important. I know some people hate that word. But for me, it meant not pushing through pain or fatigue simply because I wanted to reach the goal faster.

It was gradual: a little movement, then a little more. Not running before I could walk.

I also became better at noticing my own signals, including fatigue, tingling in my toes, and difficulty tolerating heat. Those were things to pay attention to, not ignore in an effort to prove I was recovering.

Pretty damn good, honestly. Not the same as before, but good.

I am learning not to make my previous life the only acceptable measure of progress. There is a different Dina to get to know now. Vasculitis is part of that, and I think of living with it as a partnership rather than a constant battle against my body.

What I most want someone to hear is that there is hope, whether you have a diagnosis yet or are still waiting for clarity. Hope does not have to mean a cure or a return to exactly who you were.

It can mean understanding more, asking for support, rebuilding something slowly, and making the experience less frightening. We do not need all the answers before taking one useful step forward.

Chronic pain, leadership, pushing through often get bundled together in a way that sounds admirable on the surface. Keep going. Work harder. Stay strong. Hold it all together. For high achievers, caregivers, parents, and professionals, that script can feel normal for years.

But eventually, the cost shows up.

Sometimes it shows up as burnout. Sometimes as a body that refuses to cooperate. Sometimes as an identity crisis when the version of strength you built your life around no longer works. That is where the real lesson begins. Strength is not always about doing more. Sometimes it is about stopping sooner, asking better questions, setting firmer boundaries, and learning how to lead from honesty instead of over-performance.

• When pushing through stops being strength
• Leadership is not having all the answers
• Recovery is not a finish line
• Perfectionism becomes very expensive
• What performance really means at work
• Why vulnerable leaders build stronger teams
• Workplaces still have a long way to go
• Outsource what does not require you
• Emotional intelligence starts with self-awareness
• Chronic illness can reshape identity without defining it
• Hold on to the what if

Many people living with chronic illness were praised early in life for endurance. They became the dependable one, the capable one, the one who could absorb pressure and still deliver. So when pain or illness enters the picture, the default response is often to push harder.

The problem is that this strategy eventually breaks down.

With chronic pain, leadership, pushing through cannot remain the whole framework. There comes a point when listening to your body becomes the stronger choice. That does not mean giving up on what matters. It means learning to identify what matters most in this moment and finding the safest, smartest way to meet it.

Maybe the priority is resting because your body is at its limit. Maybe it is finishing one essential work task, but from bed instead of from the office. Maybe it is showing up emotionally for your family, even when you cannot show up physically in the way you wish you could.

That shift is huge. It moves strength away from brute force and toward discernment.

People often imagine leadership as certainty. The leader is supposed to know what to do, direct the team, and carry the load without wavering. Chronic illness has a way of dismantling that illusion.

Real leadership is often less about having answers and more about asking the right questions.

That applies at work, at home, and in healthcare. Questions create space. They help other people think. They reveal what matters. They keep you from assuming expectations that may not even be real.

Useful questions can sound like this:

• What is the most important thing today?
• What do you actually need from me?
• What can wait?
• What can be delegated?
• What support do I need right now?
• Is this medical answer enough, or do I need another opinion?

For people navigating chronic illness, curiosity can be a lifeline. It helps in doctor appointments, in conversations with partners, and in deciding how to spend very limited energy. Information online can be helpful, but it should guide better questions, not replace professional care or become a diagnosis by itself.

One of the most frustrating truths about chronic illness is that recovery does not always look like a clear destination. For many people, it is not a neat before-and-after story.

It is a daily negotiation.

What is true today? What is my capacity today? What kind of day is this body allowing me to have?

That can be hard to accept, especially for people who are used to measuring progress in milestones and achievements. But this mindset is also more honest. It makes room for adaptation instead of forcing life into a rigid timeline.

Chronic pain has a way of exposing perfectionism for what it is: an impossible standard with a very real cost.

Perfectionism often disguises itself as responsibility. In practice, it can become a constant attempt to prove worth through flawless execution. At home that may look like trying to be the ideal parent by doing every activity, attending every event, and never appearing limited. At work it may look like always going above and beyond, even when your health is paying the bill.

But perfection is usually not what people need from you most.

Presence matters more.

For children, that might mean being emotionally available, even if you cannot run around outside or stay for every post-game gathering. For colleagues, it may mean being reliable on the things that count, not saying yes to every extra task. For loved ones, it may mean honest connection rather than polished performance.

A better question than “How do I do this perfectly?” is “What would be genuinely meaningful here?”

People with chronic illness often feel guilty that they are not performing enough. But that feeling deserves to be challenged.

Are you truly underperforming, or are you holding yourself to a superhuman standard?

In many cases, the issue is not lack of performance. It is that you are used to overperforming.

At work, clarity matters. Understand what your manager is actually measured on. Know the deliverables that matter most. If you can help meet those goals consistently, that is meaningful performance. It may be far more valuable than trying to be the person who does everything for everyone.

That kind of credibility also makes hard conversations easier. You can say:

• I have medical appointments coming up, but this deadline will still be met.
• I cannot be in the office today, but I can join remotely.
• I need to adjust how I am working this week so I can stay effective.

There is also another question worth asking: What am I carrying that should not be mine to carry?

That question matters in both work and personal life. Many people become chronically overloaded not only because of illness, but because they quietly absorb responsibilities that belong to others.

There is a persistent myth in leadership that the best leaders stay stoic, private, and unaffected. That approach may look powerful, but it often creates distance.

Healthy vulnerability builds trust faster than perfection ever will.

This does not mean oversharing every detail. It means being human. A leader can say they need to step away for a medical appointment. They can model boundaries. They can make it clear that health is not a weakness and that taking care of yourself is expected, not punished.

That kind of leadership sends a powerful message: your well-being matters too.

And when someone on your team needs support, one of the best responses is simple: What do you need me to cover?

People remember that. They trust it. They usually give their best in return, not out of fear but because they feel respected.

Flexibility has improved in some ways, but the reality for many people with chronic illness is still complicated. More digital access means more ways to work from anywhere, which can be a gift. But it also creates the expectation that everyone should be reachable all the time.

That is where boundaries become nonnegotiable.

If you say you are sick, what does that mean in your workplace? Fully offline? Available later? Remote but reduced? Those expectations need to be clarified, because people define them differently.

Without that clarity, flexible work can quietly turn into permanent availability, which fuels burnout fast.

With chronic pain, leadership, pushing through has to include pacing. Not just with tasks, but with social energy, commuting, family obligations, and all the after-hours expectations that pile on.

One of the most practical mindset shifts is this: what in your life does not uniquely require your involvement?

That question can be surprisingly freeing.

Outsourcing does not have to mean luxury. It can mean making tradeoffs that preserve your energy for what matters most. It might mean grocery pickup instead of walking the store. It might mean paying for help with house cleaning once a month. It might mean asking a student to help with laundry. It might mean saying no to optional social plans so you can say yes to your child’s game or your own recovery.

Energy is a resource. Spend it where your presence is irreplaceable.

Emotional intelligence is often described as understanding other people, but it also requires understanding yourself.

Do you have the capacity for this conversation right now? Can you give this person your full attention? If not, can you reschedule instead of showing up half-present?

That awareness matters at work and at home. It helps you respond instead of react. It lets you choose the form of presence you can genuinely offer. Maybe you cannot play catch outside, but you can sit down for a card game. Maybe you cannot handle a high-stakes one-on-one this afternoon, but you can give it the focus it deserves tomorrow morning.

That is not failure. That is wisdom.

Illness changes plans. It can close doors you were certain were yours. That grief is real. It is not something to minimize.

But chronic illness does not have to become the full definition of who you are.

It can shape you. It can deepen your empathy, sharpen your priorities, and change how you lead. It can force painful reinvention. But the event itself is not your identity. The way you navigate it, the way you treat people while living through it, and the way you keep finding meaning inside changing limits, that is where character gets formed.

Some seasons will be very small. Some days the win is simply getting out of bed or making it down the stairs. That still counts. The question is not always “What can I no longer do?” Sometimes the better question is “What still brings me joy, and how can I stay connected to that in this season?”

There are moments in chronic illness that feel brutally dark. Pain can become relentless. Treatments can fail. The future can feel frighteningly narrow.

In those moments, hope does not always look dramatic. Sometimes it is simply holding on to possibility.

What if the next opinion is different?

What if a new treatment appears?

What if a better medication, a better doctor, or a better framework changes the path?

What if there really is another page?

That does not erase the difficulty of the current chapter. But it can be enough to keep going.

When it comes to chronic pain, leadership, pushing through, the deepest lesson may be this: your worth was never meant to depend on how much suffering you can hide. Real strength is not pretending you are unaffected. Real strength is telling the truth, adjusting with courage, and continuing to lead your life with honesty, care, and hope.

Chronic pain doesn’t just affect your body—it can deeply impact intimacy, desire, and relationships. In this conversation, I am joined by Dr. Diane Mueller explore how the nervous system, safety, and connection play a critical role in restoring intimacy. Learn how to gently rebuild desire, reduce pain, and reconnect with yourself and your partner.

When someone lives with chronic pain, the conversation often focuses on symptoms, diagnoses, and treatments. But one area that is rarely discussed—and deeply affected—is intimacy.

Connection, touch, and closeness are not luxuries. They are biological needs tied directly to how safe and regulated our nervous system feels.

When pain enters the picture, intimacy often becomes complicated:

• Desire decreases
• Fear and anticipation increase
• The body shifts into protection mode

And over time, this can create distance—not just physically, but emotionally.

There’s a physiological reason intimacy becomes difficult.

Chronic pain increases stress hormones like cortisol, which act like a brake on desire. At the same time, intimacy and connection release oxytocin, a hormone that can:

• Reduce pain
• Lower stress
• Increase feelings of safety and bonding

But here’s the challenge:

When the body doesn’t feel safe, it won’t access the very things that help it feel better.

This creates a vicious cycle:
Pain → stress → less desire → less intimacy → fewer calming hormones → more pain

Breaking this cycle starts with safety—not performance.

Sex and intimacy are still highly taboo topics—even in healthcare.

Many people (including clinicians) were never properly taught:

• Female anatomy
• Arousal cycles
• The role of the nervous system in desire

This lack of education leads to:

• Confusion
• Shame
• Unmet needs
• Silence in relationships

And when you layer chronic pain on top of that, it’s no wonder so many people feel stuck.

The pelvic floor is complex—made up of 14 muscles, fascia, and connective tissue that respond to stress, injury, and emotional state.

When the body is in protection mode:

• Muscles can tighten
• Sensitivity can increase
• Pain can persist

Emerging research shows that consistent, gentle stimulation (like vibrator use 3x/week for 12 weeks) may significantly reduce pelvic pain.

But the key isn’t force—it’s gradual exposure and safety.

Think of it like rehabilitation:

• Start where you feel safe
• Move slowly
• Build tolerance over time

One of the most powerful shifts is expanding what intimacy means.

Intimacy is not just penetration or performance. It can include:

• Eye contact
• Breath together
• Gentle touch (in non-painful areas)
• Presence and emotional connection

When you remove pressure and expectation, you create space for:

• Curiosity
• Safety
• Reconnection

And often, desire follows safety—not the other way around.

Chronic pain can change how someone feels in their body.

Rebuilding confidence starts gently:

• Begin with self-touch in a safe, private space
• Use compassionate self-talk
• Try low lighting to reduce pressure
• Focus on parts of your body that feel neutral or safe

This isn’t about forcing confidence—it’s about relearning safety in your own body.

Many couples struggle not because they don’t care—but because they don’t know how to talk about intimacy.

Clear, kind communication can sound like:

• “This feels safe for me right now.”
• “Can we slow this down?”
• “I’d like to try something different.”

When both partners feel heard, intimacy becomes something you co-create, not something you perform.

Rebuilding intimacy is a lot like going to the gym:

• It takes practice
• It can feel awkward at first
• What works one day might not work the next

Your body is always changing—especially with age, stress, and healing.

Let go of the idea that:

“What used to work should still work.”

Instead, stay curious about what your body needs today.

Chronic pain is rarely caused by just one thing.

It often involves a combination of factors:

• Nervous system sensitization
• Stress and trauma
• Inflammation
• Gut health
• Hormones
• Infections or toxins

Real progress comes from stacking small improvements across multiple areas—not chasing a single fix.

For some, unresolved trauma plays a role in pain and intimacy challenges.

A helpful guide:

• If you can stay present, your body likely feels safe enough
• If you feel disconnected or overwhelmed, it’s a sign to pause

Working with a trained therapist can be an important step in healing.

One of the most important messages from this conversation is this:

Change is possible.

Even if:

• You’ve had pain for years
• You’ve been told “nothing is wrong”
• You feel disconnected from your body

By focusing on safety, communication, and small, consistent steps—you can begin to:

• Reduce pain
• Rebuild desire
• Reconnect with yourself and your partner

• Intimacy and touch are biological needs, not luxuries
• Chronic pain can suppress desire through stress hormones
• Safety is the foundation for rebuilding intimacy
• Intimacy goes far beyond sex—presence and connection matter most
• Gradual exposure can help retrain the body and reduce pain
• Communication is essential for creating safety in relationships
• Healing requires a whole-body, multi-factor approach
• Progress takes practice—and that’s completely normal

If this resonates with you, you’re not alone—and you don’t have to navigate this by yourself.

Inside my Change Pain Academy, we go deeper into:

• Calming a sensitized nervous system
• Rebuilding safety in your body
• Reducing pain through a biopsychosocial approach
• Returning to the parts of life that matter most—including connection and intimacy

You deserve a life with less pain—and more connection

Dr Diane Mueller's best selling book:

'Want To Want It - The Playbook To Become A Better Lover

Dr. Diane Mueller can be reached at mylibidodoc.com

Living with chronic pain can often feel like being trapped in a dark rabbit hole—one filled with fear, frustration, grief, avoidance, and isolation. For many, this experience leads to a deep and painful belief that their body is broken beyond repair, that their pain will never end, and that there is nothing more to be done. But what if this narrative is not the whole truth? What if chronic pain does not mean you are broken? What if your body is inherently designed to heal, and the key to relief lies not just in physical treatments, but in understanding the powerful mind-body connection?

In this article, inspired by the insightful conversation between Pain 2 Possibilities and Hannah Studley, we explore the transformative message that you are not broken. We delve into how all injuries heal, why chronic pain is deeply influenced by our thoughts and mindset, and why you don’t need to do anything to “fix” your thinking to find lasting relief. This fresh perspective on chronic pain care offers hope and empowerment to anyone struggling with persistent pain.

When living with chronic pain, it is common to feel as though you are caught in a downward spiral. This “rabbit hole” can take many forms—despair, fear, isolation, and the relentless search for a cure or a doctor who can finally fix the problem. Hannah Studley, a life coach, trauma counselor, and chronic pain survivor, describes this experience vividly based on her own 25-year journey with chronic back pain, IBS, and allergies.

Hannah’s story is one of repeated trauma, including being mugged three times, suffering severe injuries, and enduring 10 years of PTSD. For decades, she carried the heavy belief that her body was broken—shattered by fractures, herniated discs, and other injuries. This belief was reinforced by healthcare providers who focused solely on her physical damage, telling her that her pain was a natural consequence of her injuries and that there was nothing more to be done.

“I kind of carried around a story with me that my body was broken and weak… I just knew that the next time I have a flare-up and I get stuck on the floor maybe that’s going to be it.”

Her pain was so severe that she experienced paralysis temporarily and relied on a walking stick in her twenties. The fear of permanent disability loomed large, and the story of brokenness became an identity that limited her life.

One of the most powerful messages Hannah shares is that you are not broken. This simple but profound shift in perspective is the foundation of her recovery and the work she now does with others. While the body can sustain damage, it also has an incredible innate intelligence to heal itself. In Hannah’s case, her injuries had healed decades ago, but her chronic pain persisted because of how her mind was interpreting and reacting to her physical sensations.

Hannah explains:

“My injuries had healed 25 years ago. So why was I still in so much pain? I started to understand that my pain was actually coming from stress and anxiety. The brokenness was an illusion, a story I was carrying around in my mind.”

Through this understanding, she stopped the endless cycle of seeking fixes through treatments that only reinforced the idea of fragility. Ironically, when she stopped going to chiropractors and other therapies, her pain began to ease. This was because her nervous system finally received the message that she was safe, and the pain no longer served a protective function.

Hannah emphasizes that chronic pain is not just about the physical body but about the stories and thoughts we tell ourselves. These stories shape how we experience pain and suffering. She describes how she was trapped in a narrative of limitation and brokenness, which magnified her pain and anxiety.

But stories are made of thoughts—transient mental events that pass through the mind. Recognizing that these thoughts are not facts but passing phenomena can help reduce their power.

“Pain is inevitable but suffering is optional.”

When we realize that suffering arises from our reaction to pain, not the pain itself, we can begin to change our experience. Hannah learned to observe her thoughts without adding emotional weight or negative labels, allowing the heavy story of brokenness to dissolve.

Central to Hannah’s approach is a psychological framework known as the Three Principles: Mind, Thought, and Consciousness. These principles describe how our experience of reality is created from the inside out, through our thinking and awareness.

Hannah uses a simple analogy of baking to explain:

Just as bakers worldwide use the same basic ingredients to create a vast array of baked goods, all human experience is created from these three principles. This understanding helps us see that our suffering, including chronic pain, is created by our thinking and perception, not by external circumstances alone.

Hannah notes that this framework is not about doing or fixing but about seeing and understanding:

“It’s an understanding rather than a doing. When you understand how experience is created, it takes away a lot of fear and anxiety.”

One of the most profound insights Hannah discovered is that we live in a thought-created world 100% of the time. Our feelings, moods, and perceptions are all the result of our thinking, not the external world itself.

For example, two people can experience the same event but have completely different emotional reactions based on their thinking. This explains why some people thrive despite challenging circumstances, while others suffer deeply in seemingly better conditions.

Hannah shares her own experience living in Jerusalem during a time of war, observing neighbors with large families living in small apartments who manage to find peace, while others may spiral into fear and anxiety. The difference lies in the quality of their thinking, not the situation.

Unlike many who seek to “fix” their pain through endless treatments, Hannah’s turning point came when she realized that there was actually nothing she needed to do to fix her thinking. Instead, by simply understanding how her mind worked, she was able to let go of the heavy stories and allow her innate health to emerge.

This shift helped calm her nervous system, reduce the fight-or-flight response, and ultimately diminish the chronic pain that had dominated her life for decades.

She explains the irony:

“When I stopped trying to fix myself and stopped all treatments, that’s when I got better.”

This is a powerful message for anyone living with chronic pain who may feel overwhelmed by the pressure to “do more” or find the next fix. Sometimes, less doing and more understanding is the path to healing.

Hannah also highlights the importance of language in shaping our experience of chronic pain. Words like “broken,” “damaged,” or “there is nothing more we can do” can reinforce feelings of hopelessness and helplessness.

Conversely, shifting the narrative to “I am not broken,” “I have innate resilience,” and “my body is meant to heal” opens the door to hope and empowerment.

She even goes further to suggest that the goal is not to replace negative thoughts with positive affirmations, which can still create tension, but to have no attachment to any thought at all—allowing thoughts to pass through without adding emotional charge.

This practice helps reduce the mental noise and pressure that often exacerbate pain and anxiety.

Today, Hannah is a certified life coach with 30 years of experience, a diploma in psychology, and a World Health Organization psychological first responder. She has authored three books, including:

She is currently preparing a fourth book, Beyond Diagnosis, which shares 45 personal stories of recovery from various mental health and physical diagnoses, highlighting the power of the three principles approach.

Drawing from Hannah’s story and insights, here are some important points to consider for anyone navigating chronic pain:

Chronic pain is a complex and often misunderstood experience. The prevailing narrative that pain means you are broken, damaged, or beyond help can deepen suffering and isolation. Hannah Studley’s journey and the principles she shares offer a refreshing and hopeful perspective: you are not broken. Your body is designed to heal, and your mind holds the key to transforming your pain experience.

By understanding the mind-body connection, recognizing the power of thought, and releasing the need to fix or control every sensation, you can begin to live with less pain and more freedom. Chronic pain care that embraces this paradigm moves beyond symptom management to empower you as the central agent of your own healing.

For those struggling with chronic pain, Hannah’s story is a beacon of hope—a reminder that recovery is possible, and that you are more than your pain. To learn more about her work, books, and resources, visit hannastudley.com.

You are not broken and you are innately proficient in changing your pain you just need a little guidance to help get you there.

Next steps:

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