There’s pain. And then there’s bone pain.
Not the kind you can point to, not the kind that goes away with rest, or even one you can describe easily when someone asks, “Where does it hurt?”
It’s everywhere.
But also… it’s deeper than that.
It’s the kind of pain that lives inside you.
That buzzes under your skin like static.
That pulses through your legs at night and wakes you up feeling like your entire body’s been chewed on and spit back out.
Some days it feels like my bones are splintering from the inside out.
Like the architecture of my body is collapsing one vertebra, one rib, one hip socket at a time.
Other days, it’s dull and heavy—like someone poured wet cement into my skeleton and left it there to harden.
I never knew that bones could feel this kind of pain. That they could throb.
I thought bones just… existed. Quiet. Still. Reliable.
But now, mine scream.
There are nights I can’t find a position that doesn’t hurt. Sitting makes it worse. Lying down doesn’t help. Standing feels impossible. There’s no escape—not from the pain, and not from myself.
I want to unzip my body and step out of it. I want to breathe without flinching. I want to walk across a room without the pressure in my legs making me cry.
And more than anything, I want someone to understand that this pain isn’t something a hot bath or a stretch or a smile can fix.
Mojo knows.
He always knows.
When the pain is bad, he curls up next to my legs like he’s trying to hold the pieces of me together. He doesn’t bark or whine or ask questions—he just stays.
And somehow that makes it a little more bearable.
Like even if my bones are falling apart, I’m not alone while they do.
People love to say things like,
“You’re so strong,”
“You’re handling this so well,”
“Let me know if you need anything.”
But I don’t always feel strong. And I don’t want to have to handle it. I just want someone to sit beside me and say, “Yeah. That sounds awful. I’m here.”
Because it is awful.
This pain is awful.
And pretending it’s not—pretending it’s tolerable, manageable, easy to ignore—just makes it worse.
I’ve learned how to smile through a lot.
But bone pain is different. It humbles you. It steals your words. It becomes a part of how you move through the world.
And the world still expects you to be polite.
I still say “thank you” at the pharmacy while I’m silently begging my legs not to give out.
I still text people back with “No worries!” when my whole body feels like it’s on fire.
I still smile when people say, “You look great!” even though my bones feel like they’re turning to dust inside me.
I do all of that because that’s what’s expected.
Because apparently, even while my body crumbles, I’m supposed to be charming.
But here’s the truth:
I’m in pain.
Every day.
And if I don’t answer your message or come to your event or return your call—it’s not because I don’t care.
It’s because I’m trying to survive a body that doesn’t stop screaming.
So today, if all I do is rest—if I cancel plans or cry or stay under the covers with a dog on my lap and ice packs on my joints—I’m not lazy. I’m not rude. I’m not giving up.
I’m just trying to breathe through pain that lives in my bones.
And that alone is enough for today.
Still here. Still hurting. Still fighting.
– Izzy (and Mojo, who is currently using my leg as a pillow and doing his part to hold me together)
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