The Long & Lonely Road to Recovery
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For the last thirteen months, I’ve been recovering from a pretty nasty back injury—an L4/L5 disc herniation pressing on my L5 nerve, causing relentless foot and leg pain on my left side. No back pain, just sciatica. At its worst, it gave me foot drop and numbness. I couldn’t even roll my left foot properly when walking.
Most of 2024 was spent in constant pain, barely any sleep, and—for a good part of it—lying on a yoga mat on the floor. It was awful. But one of the worst things about this unlucky predicament was the loneliness of it all.
Trying to explain it to people was futile. Their eyes would glaze over, and their minds would drift. No one really wants to hear about suffering, and unless they’ve experienced it themselves, how could they ever truly understand?
Bump into someone who has had a herniated disc, though, and their expression darkens. They slide in closer, place a comforting hand on your arm, and shake their head slowly—maybe even close their eyes, lost in the horrid memory of it all.
Often, my fellow sufferers won’t say anything—just a silent understanding. You realise you’re in a special tribe, a secret club. One where its members have endured unimaginable pain. And the worst part? Nothing can cure it except time and patience.
Yes, certain things help: being (relatively) young, walking a lot, physiotherapy, a strong core, magnesium, a healthy diet, and sleep. But there’s no set recovery plan. No magic fix. And you endure it alone. Yes, you can opt for surgery, and a lot do. However, I felt the conservative route was right for me.
How Did This Happen?
If you took ten random people off the street and gave them an MRI, nine out of ten would have a bulging or herniated disc—and most of them wouldn’t even know it. Well, that’s what my doctor told me.
That’s because spinal disc degeneration is a normal part of ageing. Just like our skin develops wrinkles, our spines show wear and tear over time. Research shows that 30% of people in their 30s have disc degeneration, even if they have no symptoms. By age 50, nearly 80% of people have some form of disc bulging or herniation. Thankfully, 90% of disc herniations heal naturally over time, with or without surgery.
Most bulging or herniated discs don’t cause any pain at all. But sometimes, the disc presses on a nerve—like mine did with my L5 nerve—and that’s when things go south.
I didn’t even realise I had an issue until my back “went” after a heavy squat in August 2023. I felt a pop in my lumbar spine and what I thought were muscle tears down both glutes. At first, I dismissed it as a strain.
Then, following a walking holiday in Switzerland a month later, I started feeling burning in my left calf and a limp in my left foot. A month later, I couldn’t roll my foot properly. My right hip started hurting; then, the pain shifted to my left side.
By January 2024, my injury had escalated dramatically after I had lifted something heavy and twisted. The next day, I could barely walk. A scan confirmed it: an L4/L5 disc herniation pressing on my L5 nerve, causing relentless sciatica.
The Worst of It
How do I even describe it?
For the first three or four months, the pain was like nothing I’d ever known. A horrendous burning left foot and calf. Like a heavy lead weight pressing down on everything. Sitting was excruciating. Lying on any mattress was unbearable. Even standing was agony.
Simple pleasures? Gone. I couldn’t get in a car, walk properly, drive anywhere, or even sit on the sofa to relax—just endless days of lying on the floor, unable to go anywhere. And nights brought no respite. Just further suffering.
For months, I would crawl to the kitchen in the early hours, desperately adding heat or ice to my back, trying to find relief. Lying on the cold, hard floor was oddly comforting. I would cry, staring at the ceiling, mourning the injustice of it all.
Even showering was an ordeal. I’d spend hours plucking up the courage, then last only ten seconds under the hot water before my legs shook, the pain too much. Then I’d collapse onto a towel on the floor to air dry, my tears soaking into its softness. Getting dressed was traumatic. My husband had to help me during those early days.
I searched desperately for silver bullets. I prayed I wouldn’t be one of the unlucky ones who took two years to recover.
Work was a blessing. I did so much from my phone and laptop on the floor—it kept me sane. But mornings were brutal. At the time, Sky News had an advert for Qatar Airways that sang, “To fly, to fly, to fly”. Every time I heard it, I burst into tears. Travel? Freedom? Impossible.
Even music—something I’d always loved—became unbearable. One of my favourite songs, Back on 74 by Jungle, would play, and I’d feel crushed. The thought of dancing, of moving to a rhythm, was completely out of reach. I could barely walk, let alone dance. It felt like a cruel reminder of everything I’d lost.
Seeing my husband Tom pop to the shops was heartbreaking. I’d watch him drive off from the window, sobbing, shouting, screaming. His being out of earshot allowed me the freedom to do so. Otherwise, I tried to put on a brave face—he was going through his own hardships at the time.
Then, during this acute phase, I discovered a close friend was going through the same. He was four months ahead in recovery and became an incredible support. He recommended something that changed everything: a sciatica cushion. If you’ve never suffered this injury, you will never understand the happiness I felt when I realised I could sit again. Properly sit. My world opened up. The dining chair became my sanctuary. Mornings at the table with a book. Evenings watching TV. But my entire life was still so small.
Turning a Corner
By my fifth month, I started working with an amazing back specialist. He was pivotal in my recovery. Until then, I’d been trying everything—Egoscue exercises, walking 20k steps a day (bad idea), taking medication that disguised the pain so well I had to quit them to get real feedback.
The specialist looked at me and said, "Katy, just rest. Spend three weeks lying on the floor—no long walks. Just move around the house.” So I did, and it made a huge difference.
Then, he prescribed daily walking three times a day: once first thing, then at lunch, and then after dinner.
It was hell. Five minutes around the block, and tears would stream down my face. I must have looked a sorry mess, shuffling in my pyjamas, a winter coat thrown over the top, sunglasses hiding my misery.
But slowly, the walks increased. By June, I could walk 10,000 steps a day—maybe even double that. It was always in the mornings, though. The awful pain still lurked, but I learned to distinguish good pain from bad.
The Firsts
By August, despite the constant symptoms, I was venturing out more. I enjoyed short van trips and eventually tried driving again—slowly. That month, I went out for my first meal of 2024, sitting in a beer garden with my family, sciatica cushion in tow. The sunshine, my parents by my side—I felt overwhelmed with gratitude.
By October, driving had become easier. I tested my limits, joined a health club and began swimming and steaming three days a week—limping in and hobbling out but feeling better.
I went to a gig with a friend. Yes, the leg pain persisted, but I coped. I used techniques from Alan Gordon’s book The Way Out, which reminded me not to fear pain.
More firsts. The pub. Walks in the Peaks. Working properly at my desk again.
Recovery isn’t linear. It’s about teaching your body—and your brain—that you can do things again. Baby steps. Pushing limits. Enduring setbacks.
The Road Ahead
By November, I could sleep through the night. I burst into our main bedroom to tell my husband. At that point, I’d endured ten months of broken sleep and, finally, relief.
Christmas was special. A new sofa allowed me to sit beside him for the first time all year, and the chance to finally play my beloved video games again made it equally joyful.
In December, I switched from the health club to a proper gym and hired a personal trainer. We worked together every Friday, doing slow and steady strength training. I also continued my daily walks, rain or shine. And the yoga mat that had become home? Now used for stretching and mobility work.
By January, I was finally able to roll my left foot again and walk normally. Around this time, I realised I could bend forward, stretch out my left leg when sitting on the floor, and put shoes and socks on without a second thought.
Now, nearly March, I feel strong. I am over a stone lighter than I was before my injury. My core feels solid. I’m hanging from bars and lifting heavy weights. I feel great.
The biggest turning point was February 13th, 2025. For the first time, I felt no pain, just tweaks and pulls. The stingy sensation in my left glute is a sign of healing.
My trusty sciatica cushion that saved me for a whole year? I finally said goodbye to it last night. I hugged it close and thanked it. But it is now in its final resting place: the garage, where it will hopefully remain forever.
And then, last night, something incredible happened.
I was at a wedding—a proper celebration. I took a taxi there and back, and I was in no pain. I danced to Cuban music, and I was in no pain. At some point, Back on 74 by Jungle started playing. Thirteen months ago, that song crushed me. It reminded me of what I’d lost, of how impossible dancing felt. But last night, I was on a dance floor, moving with my family, laughing, and having the best time.
This is recovery. The slow, painful, frustrating, wonderful journey back to life.
I’m still not fully healed. But we’ve booked our first holiday abroad since 2023. I’m nervous about the flight, but I’ll manage.
One millimetre of nerve healing a day. An inch a month. With a bit of luck, by January 2026, my nervous system will have fully calmed down, and I’ll be back to normal.
But after everything I’ve been through, I already feel so blessed to be where I am now.
And that’s enough.