Chronic pain changes you. I know that as a doctor who has treated it, and as a patient who lives with long-term pain. Pain isn’t only a feeling in the body. It shifts your thoughts, your mood, and how you move through the day. It also pushes on your mind in a way few things can.
Over time, I’ve learned that pain can lie. Through pain signals amplified by the nervous system, it whispers that this moment will never end. It insists tomorrow will be worse. It tells you that the person you used to be is gone, replaced by someone in the mirror you barely recognize. If you accept those stories as truth, pain starts to run the show.
Protecting your mental health when life hurts, whether it’s physical pain, grief, Cancer treatment, or the long stretch of uncertainty, takes more than cheerful thoughts. It takes a plan to support your emotional wellbeing amid the invisible illness of ongoing struggle. It takes honesty. It takes work that no one really prepares you for, including attention to mental health.
It begins with naming what’s happening. For years, I watched patients minimize their pain. They shrugged it off, acted fine, and tried to keep moving as if nothing had changed. Then my turn came, and I did the same. We’re often taught that staying quiet is strength. But pretending you’re okay when you’re not doesn’t make you brave, it makes you alone. Silence turns the volume up. Pain grows when it stays hidden. Working with healthcare professionals and a multidisciplinary team encourages open communication about it.
So I started saying it out loud. This hurts. This is hard. I’m not doing well today. Those words didn’t weaken me. They brought me back to reality.
Pain can also change your personality, which can feel scary. Patience can dry up. Small things start to feel huge due to central sensitization. What you used to brush off can suddenly crush you. You snap at people you love. You stop showing up to the hobbies that once made you feel like yourself. It can lead to social isolation. Joining support groups can make a real difference. It can feel like the old you is fading, and pain is taking the center seat.
Seeing that clearly isn’t an excuse for bad behavior. It’s how you spot the enemy. When I hear myself speaking in a way I don’t like, I pause. I remind myself, this is pain talking. The real me is still here, just covered in layers of discomfort. If you’re in treatment, or you’re in remission and still dealing with pain or fear, that reminder matters. You are not your symptoms. You are not your worst day.
There’s no single trick that fixes adversity. You build a tool kit of self-management strategies, and you use what works that day. Pain management programmes, cognitive behavioural therapy, and psychological therapies can be key parts of self-management. Sometimes distraction helps. I read. I watch something light. I throw myself into a task that needs my full attention, incorporating physical activity like gentle exercise through activity management. Other times, none of that works, so I balance it with pain relief from pain medication. Then I sit with the pain and admit it’s here. I may even talk to it like an unwanted house guest who refuses to leave.
Some days, a quiet breath or a short meditation with relaxation techniques and breathing exercises helps. Establishing a sleep routine can make a difference too. Other days, it feels impossible. I’ve also learned something simple and true: people help more than techniques. Honest talks with safe, steady friends can do what no method can. Pain loves isolation. It grows in the dark. It shrinks when you’re seen.
The weight of persistent pain is real, and it’s heavy, especially with chronic conditions. It’s the plans you cancel at the last minute. It’s the guilt of disappointing someone again. It’s the anger of limits you never asked for. It’s the tiredness of explaining your body, your energy, your scans, your side effects. It’s the fear that this is forever, even when you’re told you’re in remission, unlike acute pain from a temporary injury.
If you carry that weight, you’re not dramatic. You’re human.
We may not be able to erase the burden, but we can choose how we hold it. We can stop shaming ourselves for having it.
I’ve also had to change how I measure a good day, which impacts quality of life through necessary lifestyle changes. Sometimes success is getting out of bed and washing your face. Sometimes it’s finishing half of what you planned. The earlier version of me would have called that failure. Today, I call it adjustment. Pain forces a new definition of progress, and that doesn’t make you lesser.
There was a time when I could write for hours. When I could only manage thirty minutes, I saw it as proof I was losing. Now I treat those thirty minutes like a small victory. That’s thirty minutes pain didn’t steal.
Your mindset in hard seasons isn’t built on constant optimism. It’s built on perspective when living with pain. It’s remembering that pain, whether physical or emotional, is something you’re going through, not who you are. It’s learning to spot small breaks in the clouds, a laugh, a text from a friend, a warm shower, a short walk, a song that still reaches you. Pain will tell you those moments don’t count. Don’t believe it.
Pain may be one of the toughest opponents you’ll face, unlike the quick lessons of acute pain. It tries to shape you. It tests you. It pushes you to let it be your whole story.
But pain doesn’t get the last sentence.
You do.
And on the days when courage feels out of reach, hold onto one clear truth. You’re still here. You’re still trying. You’re still you, even under all of it.
That matters more than pain will ever admit.
