18 Years in Chronic Pain

Reflections on Suffering, Loneliness, and Hope

This week marks 18 years since a botched surgery left me in chronic, intense back pain.

I was planning to share some more general reflections about spending over half my life in severe back pain, but recent events have shifted my focus.

Like much of America, I’ve been following the aftermath of the recent murder of UnitedHealthcare CEO Brian Thompson in midtown Manhattan. As the suspect they’ve charged with the crime, Luigi Mangione, has become an internet sensation, I’ve also become determined to find out more information on him, but for a different reason than most. Early reporting indicates extreme back pain may have played a role in his actions.

Given the number of people justifying or even praising the murder of UnitedHealthcare CEO Brian Thompson and fawning over the suspect, Luigi Mangione, I need to start by wholeheartedly condemning the murder. Like all Americans, Mangione deserves a fair trial for the horrific crime he’s charged with. If he’s found guilty, he deserves to be punished. Full stop.

What follows is in no way an attempt to justify his alleged actions. Instead, this is an effort to process them in light of my own story and the striking parallels between my experience and the emerging details of Mangione’s last few years.

Police and journalists are just beginning to piece together the events that might have led Mangione to go from surfing in Hawaii to allegedly murdering Brian Thompson in Manhattan. The story will evolve as they learn more. However, it seems clear that Mangione’s life took a dramatic turn sometime in 2022 when he suffered a serious back injury, reportedly due to a surfing accident. Social media accounts apparently connected to Mangione show spine x-rays and talk about spondylolisthesis (slipped vertebra), and his Goodreads account included several recently read books about back pain and chronic pain (some of which I’ve read as well).

The evidence points toward Mangione’s life being dramatically upended by extreme pain. I’m sure there will be additional factors that contributed to his alleged actions, but it’s uncomfortably impossible for me not to relate to how life-shattering extreme and chronic pain can be.

My (Very Abridged) Story

Eighteen years ago this week, my life was turned completely upside down by intense pain. When I was 15 years old, I went in for what was supposed to be a fairly routine stomach surgery and woke up in severe back pain. That pain has been my constant companion ever since. Despite the seemingly obvious connection between that surgery and my back pain, it took years for doctors to identify the exact cause of my pain.

During that time, I saw dozens of specialists, driving countless hours across Southern California with my dear mother, desperately trying to find relief. Doctor after doctor told me they could not help me, with several suggesting the pain was all in my head or telling my mom they thought I was making it all up for attention or access to pain medication.

In those first few months, I barely slept. I drifted through life in a haze of exhaustion and despair. My parents shuffled me from appointment to appointment as my entire world fell apart. I dropped out of high school, rarely saw my friends, and spiraled without any hope. If I hadn’t been a teenager living with my parents, I probably would have completely disappeared like Luigi Mangione seems to have done.

After six months, my mental health hit rock bottom. My parents, alarmed and desperate, became seriously worried for my safety. I was struggling to find a reason to keep going, overwhelmed by the pain and sleeplessness. My parents and primary doctor decided to admit me into the hospital, both to protect me from harming myself and to try to get several specialists to evaluate me in one place, hoping for answers.

That hospital stay didn’t provide many clear answers, but it gave me two crucial things: sleep and hope. I met specialists who showed genuine care and concern for my situation. They didn’t dismiss my pain just because they couldn’t fully understand it. Crucially, they gave me hope without overpromising.

Unfortunately, these doctors were the exception, not the rule. Too often, if a doctor couldn’t identify a clear source of my pain on a scan, they would either throw up their hands and say, “I can’t help you, go see someone else,” or they would suggest my pain was imagined or fake. No curiosity. No compassion. No hope.

It took over two years, but finally, a doctor at USC determined through a series of temporary nerve blocks that my initial stomach operation had damaged a series of nerves in my abdomen. This set off a cascade of nerve misfirings, radiating pain throughout my back. Despite no significant damage to my spine, my nerves are firing constantly, sending signals of intense pain to my brain.

This confirmation launched a series of procedures to try and “turn off” these misfiring nerves, but none were successful. However, it also gave doctors concrete proof that my pain was real. Even though I was still just a teenager, my doctors finally felt comfortable prescribing serious pain medication to help manage my symptoms while they searched for a long-term solution.

While the medication provided short-term relief, it came with severe drawbacks. For several years, I basically relied on morphine to function. I’m now completely medication-free, but I had to endure absolute hell while weaning my body off its narcotic dependency. I hit an even deeper emotional, physical, and spiritual rock bottom, but that’s a story for another day.

Fast forward to today, and I’ve managed to build some semblance of a normal life. The pain hasn’t gone away, but I’ve learned to live with it. Part of that is simply the miracle of human resilience. Our bodies can adapt to unimaginable circumstances over time. I’ve also learned to recognize what triggers my pain and what helps calm it, avoiding certain activities and seeking out strategies to bring my pain under control.

I still have good days and bad days (and some very bad days), but 15-year-old me would never have believed that a relatively stable life was possible while living in this much pain.

Looking back now, I see those early years of searching for relief and struggling to survive as the beginning of an unexpected pilgrimage, one that would take me deeper into suffering than I thought I could endure.

I share these abridged details from my story, in part, because I see unsettling parallels between my experience and what little we know of Mangione’s story. While the full truth of his situation remains unclear, it appears that intense back pain played a devastating role in his life. I understand, perhaps better than most, how extreme, unrelenting pain can bring someone to the brink of despair. But no amount of suffering can justify his alleged actions. Pain might help explain a downward spiral, but it cannot excuse it.

The current reporting surrounding the tragic murder of Brian Thompson is a sobering reminder of how quickly suffering can push someone to the edge. It forces me to ask: what more can we do to support those in pain before they feel entirely consumed by it?

Too often, people in chronic pain are left to suffer in silence, dismissed by doctors, and unsupported by communities unsure of how to respond. But pain, no matter how consuming, does not have to destroy someone’s life. Even when medical solutions remain elusive, our communities can and must do better. By fostering a culture of compassion and accompaniment, we can help those in pain feel seen, understood, and supported. We can combat the loneliness and despair that so often accompany suffering and ensure no one feels they must carry this weight alone.

The Loneliness of Pain

I can confidently say that I would not be here today without the incredible support of my family and friends over the past 18 years.¹ Few things in life are as isolating as prolonged pain and suffering. While everyone else moves on with their lives, you’re stuck living with it day in and day out. This is especially true for those with invisible illnesses or hidden suffering.

My naturally stoic demeanor means people often don’t know I’m in pain unless I tell them. This has led to awkward conversations with friends, sometimes months or even years into a relationship, when I finally mention it. I suspect there will be people who have known me for a while who will learn about my back issues through this essay.

This stoic tendency is also a factor in why so many doctors didn’t believe the extent of my pain. I’ve never seen the point in complaining or using my pain to draw attention to myself because the very last thing I want is pity. However, that also means people often don’t realize the weight I’m constantly carrying… that I’m just struggling to push through and make it to the end of the day.

It’s a constant tension: on one hand, I don’t want pity or to be treated differently. On the other hand, I don’t want to go through life feeling invisible because the people around me are unaware of such a significant aspect of my life.

There are a few people in my life, however, who’ve always struck the perfect balance in how they approach my pain. My aunt, for example, never fails to ask about my back. Within the first few minutes of seeing me, she’ll say something like, “David, how’s it going? How’s the back doing? Try anything new lately?” There’s no pity in her voice: it’s casual, curious, and matter-of-fact. Her questions make me feel seen and cared for, but without the heaviness that often accompanies discussions about pain. She could be asking about a new hobby or my schoolwork. It’s a masterful way to acknowledge my reality while reminding me that I’m not defined by it.

Online forums for people in chronic pain, like those on Reddit or Twitter, often reveal just how isolating pain can be. What I’ve found in these spaces is a horrific cycle of self-pity, despair, and anger. Tragically, many of the people in these forums have no one else to talk to about their suffering, so they endlessly one-up each other with stories of pain and suffering.

Chronic pain isn’t just a medical issue. It’s intertwined with our society’s broader crisis of loneliness. In his bestselling book, "Bowling Alone: The Collapse and Revival of American Community," Robert Putnam identified a steep decline in social connections and close friendships in America. This trend has only worsened over the quarter century since his research was published and has become especially problematic among single men, where one in five report having zero close friends to rely on.

This makes me even more grateful for the community I have around me. Their support has been a lifeline, especially when I’ve come close to hitting rock bottom. Just this past week, several people reached out to check on me, knowing that the news about Luigi Mangione might be triggering for me. One friend texted me, “I immediately found myself very thankful that you know Jesus, but also very thankful that you are alive.” I’m thankful for those two things, too. Another was more blunt: “Thinking of you and your back pain with this dude… and appreciate you for not going on a murderous rampage as a result.” I’m thankful for that, too, especially considering the amount of medical malpractice I’ve endured over the past two decades.

The cure to loneliness is genuine friendship. It doesn’t have to come from a huge friend group. Even one or two friends who truly know you can make all the difference. Building this kind of connection takes intention. It requires the courage to let others see your struggles and the compassion to ask about theirs. It’s about learning to support one another, not with pity, but with a curiosity and care that says, “I see you. I’m here for you.”

At its core, combatting the loneliness of pain is fundamentally about presence. Real, consistent, genuine presence. It doesn’t erase the suffering, but it can make it bearable. It reminds you that you don’t have to face it alone.

Finding Meaning in Suffering

The unfolding story of Luigi Mangione has been a wake-up call for me. As someone who has endured nearly two decades of intense physical suffering, I can’t help but see echoes of my own darkest moments in the fragments we know of his story. The difference is that I’ve been fortunate to build some stability in my life, thanks to a loving community and a growing sense of purpose. Those things don’t come easily. It’s a fragile balance I constantly have to maintain. Mangione’s story, however, has reminded me how precarious that journey was (and still is), and how close I’ve come to losing hope.

It took me years to begin seeing my pain as more than just a burden to endure. Over time, I’ve come to understand it as a kind of gift, though not one I would have chosen for myself. Stephen Colbert said in a fascinating interview with Anderson Cooper that he had learned to be “grateful for the thing I most wish hadn't happened” (the tragic death of his father and two brothers in a plane crash). He goes on to say, “What punishments of God are not gifts?” There’s a lot to unpack there, but I genuinely do see my experience of suffering as a gift. I wouldn’t have understood this 18 years ago, but I do now. It has shaped me in ways I am only beginning to understand. It’s taught me resilience, patience, and empathy. It’s deepened my faith, forcing me to cling to God in moments when nothing else made sense.

My search for meaning in suffering played a significant role in my journey into the Catholic Church. For years, I wrestled with questions like why me? and why would God allow me to suffer like this? Unlike the surface-level answers I received early on, when I began exploring these questions through a Catholic lens, I encountered a willingness, even an eagerness, to confront the deep mysteries of pain and suffering.

The Catholic Church’s teaching on redemptive suffering, particularly as articulated by Pope John Paul II, changed the way I viewed my pain. In Salvifici Doloris, John Paul II writes that suffering, when united with Christ, is no longer meaningless. It becomes a participation in His redemptive work on the Cross: “Each man, in his suffering, can also become a sharer in the redemptive suffering of Christ.” Christ not only suffered for us, but He also suffers with us.

This understanding transformed how I approached my own pain. Instead of enduring it in isolation, I began to see my suffering as something I could unite with Christ’s for a greater purpose, even when I couldn’t fully understand it. The pain that once felt senseless became an offering, one I could give back to God. In the depths of solitude and loneliness, I realized I was never truly alone. Christ was not just beside me, He was suffering with me.

This doesn’t make my pain disappear, nor does it romanticize it. But it gives it meaning. What once seemed unbearable and purposeless has become something I can carry with faith, trusting that even my suffering can bear fruit in ways I may not yet see.

What’s Next?

As I reflect on 18 years of back pain, I’m reminded how much of this journey has been about survival. Just getting through the day used to feel impossible. Slowly, I’ve learned to live with the pain, to build a life that acknowledges it without letting it completely consume me. There are still plenty of days when it feels like I’m back at square one, just trying to survive. On those days, I try to remind myself that even two steps forward and one step back is still making progress in the long run.

I’ve come to see this experience as a pilgrimage. Pain has been the road I never would have chosen, but it’s also been the path that has shaped me into the man I am today. Like any pilgrimage, it’s full of detours, setbacks, and moments where the destination feels impossibly far away. But it’s also taught me resilience, gratitude, and a deeper reliance on God and the people around me.

I keep coming back to the question: what can I do to help others who are suffering? I don’t know what, if anything, could have redirected Luigi Mangione’s tragic journey from a surfing accident in Hawaii to an alleged murder in Manhattan, but I keep asking myself what could have been done to give him the support he clearly needed.

For all I know, Mangione’s motivation could have nothing to do with his back pain. But if any good can come from this situation, I hope it serves as a wake-up call, reminding us to better support those living with pain before they lose themselves to despair.

For me, I think it starts with simply being honest about my own experience and sharing my story in ways that might resonate with someone who feels isolated or hopeless.

For the past 18 years, I’ve resisted being labeled as someone who is in chronic pain. As I look ahead, however, maybe I’m finally mature enough in my journey to rethink this approach. Maybe I do want to be known as the chronic pain guy. Maybe I do want to be known as someone who has endured great suffering and, through the grace of God, has clung to hope and emerged stronger. Maybe I can help others prevent pain from destroying their lives.

I’m not trying to pretend I’ve got it all figured out. Far from it. But I do know what it feels like to think there’s no way forward, and I also know what it feels like to find even the smallest glimmer of hope. That’s what I want to offer others. Not platitudes or quick fixes, but the reminder that they don’t have to walk this path alone.

Indeed, You'll Never Walk Alone.

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1. Postscript:

This essay has been an emotional rollercoaster to write. What I’ve been left with, above all, is a profound sense of gratitude. I am so thankful for the countless people who have supported me and walked with me through this journey of chronic pain over the past 18 years.

There are far too many to name individually, but I want to take a moment to thank a few groups explicitly:

My parents and sisters, for their countless hours of care, enormous sacrifices, and unconditional love poured into me. My extended family throughout California and my PV friends, who have faithfully stood with me since day one of this journey. My Westmont College family, friends and professors, who carried me through some of the most difficult experiences of my life. My DC community, especially the crew at St. Peter’s on Capitol Hill, the Dominican Friars, and everyone who helped me find deeper meaning in suffering on my journey to becoming Catholic. My New York crew, for their incredible friendships over oceans and continents. My Pepperdine community, and so many individual friends, mentors, priests, and religous spread out across the globe who have supported me in ways big and small.

Thank you for showing up, for praying for me, for carrying me when I couldn’t carry myself, and for reminding me again and again that I do not suffer alone.