There should be a warning label on adulthood: At some point, your back may go out without notice or prior authorization — and take your dignity with it.
We don’t realize how much we rely on our backs until they go on strike. One seemingly innocent movement, and we go from independent adults to prisoners in our own bodies.
When my back goes out, ordinary motions — putting on shoes or underwear, refilling my dog’s food and water bowls, flipping my hair forward to towel it dry — become impossible. I can’t even lean over the bathroom sink to brush my teeth, turning a basic act of hygiene into a full-blown splash zone.
From there, my world shrinks. I move cautiously, afraid even to cough, sneeze or laugh.
Nothing fills me with more dread than getting
out of bed.
What does “my back went out” even mean? Muscles lock down to protect injured tissue, throwing the body into a timeout like a misbehaving toddler.
If you’ve ever had back issues and are looking for solidarity (research says there are at least 16 millionof you with persistent or chronic back issues in the US), read on. If you’re among the blessed who’ve never gone from fully functional to incapacitated with one wrong move, keep reading — and feel grateful. But don’t gloat. Pride cometh before the fall.
For context, I’m a retired English teacher not a doctor, so take what follows with a grain of salt – whatever that means.
The pain of back labor
My first experience with serious back pain came at 28. While pregnant with my first child, I went into labor armed with the bright idea of skipping the epidural to see if childbirth is really as bad as advertised.
Spoiler alert: it’s worse.
I should have known. God warned Eve that childbearing would be part of the long-term payment plan for that forbidden apple. I hope she enjoyed it.
I expected abdominal cramping. Instead, I got back labor — arguably the most painful and linked to a higher likelihood of chronic lower back issues later in life.
Apparently, one traumatic experience isn’t enough. When I gave birth again at 30, back labor returned for round two. This time, I begged for an epidural but was denied, leaving me with the inescapable conclusion that karma keeps meticulous records.
I’m normally quiet, but the nurses asked me to stop screaming. Said I was frightening the other mothers.
Hello! How about that epidural?!
My back has gone out four times since then – major flare-ups, not counting the smaller ones. The first struck when I was 35 and leaning over the meat case at Sam’s Club. Out of nowhere, the same searing pain I’d felt during labor exploded in my lower back. How I got home remains a blur.
Part of my problem is I have three herniated discs, likely from years of sports. At one point, I spent months fighting my insurance company for an MRI — a requirement before seeing a surgeon. When I finally got in, he glanced at the scan, scolded me for wasting his time and walked out.
Good news. Poor delivery.
The (back) hits kept coming
In my 50s, stress and shock began playing a role.
My second major flare-up struck in New Mexico shortly after I learned my older brother had suffered a stroke in Florida. I was visiting my fiancé Otis and unloading the dishwasher when I suddenly clutched my back and screamed.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“I’m going to faint,” I said.
Knowing I’m no drama queen, he rushed to catch me.
When I came to, I was lying on the kitchen floor. He asked whether I wanted to get up.
“No,” I said, afraid to move. “But will you please bring me a pillow?”
I ate breakfast lying on the floor. He also brought me an ice pack, but using it would have required lifting my back, so it sat untouched beside me.
That’s the paradox of back pain: movement feels impossible, yet healing depends on it. Eventually, centimeter by centimeter — and with plenty of screaming — I forced myself upright.
My third major flare-up occurred Mar. 21, 2020 – the day my mother unexpectedly died on what was supposed to be my wedding day.
Though she hadn’t been feeling well, she’d had her hair and nails done for the occasion. When I called to check on her, my father answered. After shuffling through the house with his walker, he said, “She’s on the bathroom floor.” At 90, he couldn’t bend to check for a pulse, so he waited helplessly beside her.
I arrived seven minutes later — far too late.
Shock and grief collided with physical strain — bending, cleaning, embracing visitors. By evening, while leaning over the kitchen sink to wash dishes at my parents’ house, the now-familiar pain shot through my back.
Otis drove me home. I made it to my bedroom before my back locked up completely.
Desperate to pee but unable to move, I peed my pants.
Even before he’d vowed to love me for better or worse, he cleaned up the mess on what was supposed to be our wedding night.
The most recent flare-up — please, God, let it be the last — happened Dec. 14, 2025, in Georgia while I was visiting my son and his family.
The night before, I lay on my stomach and, for reasons known only to my inner idiot — okay, I was impressed I could still kick my heels back to touch my derrière — I kept kicking. Mistake number one.
The next morning, despite my husband and son standing nearby, perfectly willing to help, I folded up the couch bed myself. Mistake number two.
Then I hoisted my heavy suitcase onto the couch to finish packing. Mistake number three.
Three strikes, and my back was out.
The pain — jarring, cracking, unmistakable — seared across my lower back.
“I’m okay,” I insisted, clinging to the magical thinking that saying so might make it true.
Then, because apparently I’m a slow learner, I bent over to keep packing.
This time, I unleashed some of the vocabulary I’d heard during 42 years of teaching at a public high school.
Denial was no longer an option. The real question became logistical: could I survive the hour-long drive to the Atlanta airport, the two-hour flight and the ride home? Or would pain paralyze me?
Somehow, I even managed the airplane restroom — a space roughly the size of a vintage phone booth. Avoiding the toilet seat is tricky on a good day. With a bad back, it felt like an audition for Cirque du Soleil.
By the time we landed in West Palm Beach, I was shaking, despite wearing a heavy winter coat in 80-degree weather. The next morning, getting out of bed took an hour and a steady stream of self-encouragement:
“You can do it. Just a little more.”
The routine to recovery
After two weeks, the pain improved. After a month, my back had returned to its version of normal.
My husband, kids and I all own back braces, which we put on like a well-rehearsed fire drill the moment our backs complain. I’ve also learned when I sleep on my back with a pillow tucked under my knees, my back doesn’t hurt when I wake up.
We've each found different ways to manage flare-ups — ice, medication, chiropractic care, massage, core strengthening and lifting smarter instead of harder.
Nobody likes depending on others. We pride ourselves on being self-sufficient, competent and in control. Back pain dismantles all three, leaving us with a humbling truth: independence is fragile, and grace often arrives in the form of help we'd rather not need.
Learning to accept that help may be the hardest muscle we ever have to strengthen.
Janet Meckstroth Alessi is a retired high school teacher and frequent contributor to Accent. She can be reached at jlmalessi@aol.com.
This article originally appeared on Palm Beach Post: When your back goes out and life comes to a halt
