Now listen up: In this strange digital world of hunched-over desk monkeys and social media addicts, we’ve evolved into a species with spines about as sturdy as wet noodles – both literally and figuratively. We’re popping more pills and visiting more back-crackers than there are pouting selfies on Instagram.

But here’s a story that’ll make you sit up straight. In 2011, I herniated a disc in my lower back because I was too lazy to adapt the barbell for my clean and press. That’s right, I bent over and transformed myself into a human Jenga tower because I couldn’t be bothered to unwind the spindly thingy to reduce the weight. And let me tell you, nothing says I’ve made it in life quite like needing both hands just to lower yourself onto the toilet.

But did I learn my lesson? Hell no! I tried to play sports within a few weeks. Because apparently, my strategy for healing was to ignore the injury and hope it goes away. Coincidentally, that’s also America’s healthcare plan – you know, the one they try because they can’t afford it, before finally visiting a doctor who then gets them hooked on smack.

Fast forward a year, and I’m in Rome. Now, you’d think being in the heart of an ancient empire would be great for resting your injury. All that lying around on chaise lounges, being fed grapes by toga-clad servants. Walking down the streets of Rome, I may have dressed like a suave Italian, but I moved with such a sharp stabbing pain in the back that I could empathise with my dear Roman brother, Caesar. 

As the pain evolved into sciatica and then office syndrome, I spent half the time at work, trying out every chair known to man. I was like Goldilocks, if Goldilocks had sciatica and a bad attitude. Instead of enjoying a tour of the Colosseum, I had embarked on a grand tour of furniture stores; testing out office chairs, ergonomic monstrosities, kneeling chairs that made me look like I was praying to the god of lumbar support—and balancing on a fitness ball—all to relieve agony in my hips and lower back. My colleagues must have thought I was in training for the circus.

Exercise helped. Once warmed up, I felt loose. Even strong. I always felt good when working my way around weight machines in the gym, dripping sweat all over the handlebars in spin class or throwing shapes in hot-room yoga. I always felt great… for the next five minutes. Then my muscles would throw a worse tantrum than an Italian toddler in a supermarket. The tingles and hot flashes would come back so badly, I’d feel like a menopausal woman stuck in a sauna. What on earth was the point of all that straining, puffing and dizziness to force my hamstrings into downward dog? 

Oh, and speaking of doggy style, Snoop’s favourite herb, the green shit – it didn’t do a thing for me. Not as advertised!! And despite all the drugs the doctors prescribed me, the only thing that seemed to work was alcohol. Beer. Wine. Whisky. Negronis. They were all good. They helped to relax my muscles, and my anxiety – until the next morning.

When I moved to London, I took advantage of the free National Health Service and visited all kinds of specialists to investigate what was happening. Through all my internet research (and boy do we pain sufferers become internet-qualified medical experts), a self-diagnosis of fibromyalgia had become the focus of my ire. I met with doctors, chiropractors, osteopaths, witch doctors, quacks and shamans. I read books about physiology, the brain and neuroplasticity. I visited so many specialists in so many countries that I took my dark passenger on a continental tour – from Thailand to Italy, to England and back to Thailand, seeking Ayurvedic medical masters in Kerala, India, and even a French guy in Cambodia who had suffered from a similar issue. Actually, a side note: he suggested I needed to take back control of my body and retrain my brain through CrossFit and boxing. As it turns out, he was right. But at the time, I was too concerned about herniating my disc again. 

The Plot Twist: Muay Thai, The Unexpected Hero

By the time the pain had reached my hands in 2018, I was bouncing around between jobs in Bangkok, doing some freelance gigs. And one of the topics that came across my writing desk was Muay Thai gyms in Thailand. 

Now, for those of you who don’t know, Muay Thai is a martial art that basically involves turning your entire body into a pointed weapon. It’s as if yoga and a bar fight had a baby. But to take the job, I was told I’d have to trial the class to be able to write about it properly. Naturally, I was hesitant. I knew I’d feel good with the physical training but I was anxious about how my lower back would cope with the kick-boxing moves and my tear ducts with cope with a punch to the nose. 

I’m kidding of course. I knew it was mostly fitness focused. And indeed, the pain in my hands and tension in my upper back had already disappeared by the warm up. I quickly settled in, rediscovering my competitive side over sit ups, push ups, squats and bridges. And hell yeah I was proud that I could skip for a full five minutes with a plastic rope as heavy as playing jump rope with a full-grown python. And the best bit – hitting the shit out of the bags and the pads. There’s something really exhilarating about a combination of punches followed by slamming your knee into the chest of your teacher, followed by a swinging kick to the sky (or the pad, preferably). 

By the time I was finished, 90 minutes later, I literally couldn’t lift my arms. My shoulders were exhausted from this new exercise that was foreign to my body. Of course, by the next day, I could move my arms, but I was in a lot of pain. Not the back pain I’d become so accustomed to, but an old familiar friend called delayed onset muscle soreness that’s so beloved by weightlifters. I didn’t mind this pain. In fact, compared with the chronic shit, I loved this pain. And for the next four days I felt as though I was fibromyalgia free. Soon enough, the tense muscles and hot, tingling skin returned. 

But I wondered to myself: Should I just do Muay Thai training every day? Perhaps I could distract my brain from remembering the chronic stuff in favour of the rewarding acute shit. So I returned to the same gym. And the same thing happened. And I returned, again and again, upping my frequency – from twice a week to three to five times a week. And pretty soon, I wasn’t experiencing any fibromyalgia-like symptoms anymore. I continued at this pace for six months before I travelled home to the UK for a holiday. 

Frustratingly, I couldn’t train while I was home, and within just three weeks, the chronic pain had returned. I tried the old gym routine again but it didn’t help. I was literally aching to get back to the Big Mango. 

And you know what? It worked. That’s right, after years of western and eastern medicine failing me, it took getting repeatedly kicked in the ribs to fix my back. It’s like my body said, ‘Fine, you want pain? I’ll show you pain!’ and then miraculously fixed itself out of spite.

So, pro tip: If your back hurts, don’t go to a doctor. Go to Thailand and let someone punch you in the face. It’s cheaper than health insurance, and you get a cool story out of it. Plus, you might come back with abs and the ability to break boards with your forehead. Try getting that from your local GP.

Article written by James at Crunch

Disclaimer: This story of my ‘dark passenger’ is about an issue that plagued me for years. I decided to share it here because many people were impressed about how I found a resolution and they suggested it’s a story that could help others – by promoting an active solution to the age-old problem of back pain and the fascinating science of neuroplasticity (or retraining the brain). But remember: I’m not a doctor. If you have any spine-tingling concerns, consult a qualified medical professional. The information in this article is my personal experience, not professional medical advice, and shouldn’t be taken lying down.