Openness to Change

In 2003, after 15 years of teaching experience, I found myself under the leadership of a principal whose commitment to perfect organization influenced my professional journey. Driven by a belief system based on meticulous planning, rigorous organization, and effective control, the principal's approach instilled in me a relentless pursuit of excellence.

Initially, I embraced this methodology with enthusiasm, eager to refine my skills and enhance my productivity. The intense focus on perfection led me down the path of workaholism, and I struggled to balance the demanding expectations with my personal well-being. It led to the development of two guiding principles that made me align my actions and thoughts with the specific goals or values of the school where I worked.

1. If not now, when?

The principle often emphasized the importance of taking immediate action. Because I was scared of failure, I seized each task and made the most out of completing it as soon as possible, even though ample time was given.

Immediate action for every assignment led to proactivity. I always felt a sense of urgency, motivating me to start and finish the task to the best of my ability. The results were timely completion and an ability to combat procrastination. I was consistently building momentum and confidence, making me excel in administration. I was effective in planning, organizing, and controlling my work.

Of course, I often made impulsive decisions resulting in a waste of unnecessary time correcting mistakes and redoing tasks. The urgency to act immediately also heightened my stress levels. I suffered burnout at the end of every term because I didn’t take time to rest over weekends or during the school holidays. During the December holidays, for example, I always planned and prepared all the work for the following year.

2. If not me, who?

I made myself personally responsible for individual contributions. I took ownership of everything that needed to be done. I believed that only I could make a difference and sought ways to take initiative.

This didn’t increase engagement and active participation in activities at school. I was focused only on my small little academic world. I had unrealistic expectations believing only I could solve problems, ignoring the importance of delegation and teamwork. This too played a role in every term’s burnout.

The martyrdom of taking on excessive burdens in short time frames made me neglect my mental and physical well-being. 

It was difficult to break these two ingrained beliefs but, through conscious effort, I’ve made progress. The following helped me to become more open to change.  

• Awareness: I acknowledged the benefits and drawbacks of each belief, and the impact they made on my life.
• Open-mindedness: I became open to new information and perspectives to facilitate change.
• Critical thinking: I analyzed and questioned the validity and origin of each belief. This weakened their hold.  
• Exposure: I talked to others about my beliefs and perspective, which brought diverse viewpoints and experiences. This helped me see alternative perspectives.  
• Support systems: I found support from others who encouraged open-minded exploration.

What I've learned over the years is that our beliefs, behaviours, and identities are shaped by the people we interact with and the environments we inhabit. These influences can help us with personal and professional growth, but they’re not always beneficial to our well-being. The pressures and expectations imposed by others, even with the best intentions, can sometimes lead us down paths that compromise our mental and physical health.

I wish I had known the importance of rest and reflection twenty years ago. Reflecting on our viewpoints and the direction of our lives can help us reassess our priorities, make necessary adjustments, and find a healthier balance between work and home life. This reflection allows us to align our actions with our true values and needs, ensuring that our journey through life is both fulfilling and sustainable.

Padded Foot, Encumbered Mind

Pain is a symptom, and when we identify or understand what causes it, we can decide what needs to be done to heal or live with it. My reality is chronic pain. 

Chronic pain is there all the time, or it may come and go. I have peripheral neuropathy, which means that the pain I experience is ongoing. It's there all the time.

There isn’t an instant fix to healing from any form of pain. It’s a gradual process that starts with small, incremental steps to build a capacity to handle the challenge. Every time we successfully cope with a wave of pain, we strengthen our internal sense of recognizing danger and seeking safety – whether it’s taking a painkiller for physical pain, visiting a friend for emotional pain, or reading for mental or spiritual enlightenment.

My internal landscape has shifted because of the constant pain. Over time and with practice, I've learnt to create a haven within myself. I've learnt to move from one small breath, one sensation, and one moment at a time toward victory. 

When I found out why I was suffering and that there was no cure for the chronic pain, I was forced to become patient and kind to myself. It took several years to understand the importance of patience and kindness, but I eventually learned the lesson.

Acceptance is a life-long journey. Part of this journey to accepting life with chronic pain led me to the old habit of writing to process the diagnosis and cope with the reality of living with it. 

I started writing my autobiography in 2023 and I can proudly say, I'm almost finished writing, ‟Padded Foot, Encumbered Mind”.

I want to share the Prologue with you.

Prologue: My Precious

The Calm and the Chaos

There’s a wonderful sense of inner calm that accompanies good health. Often, we don’t fully appreciate this calm until it’s disrupted. Whenever I see a calm body of water, I can’t help but connect it to the concept of health. In the peaceful depths of health, we can float and absorb its peace.

When we feel ill or experience pain, our inherent instinct is to survive whatever is disturbing the calm. The calm is then replaced with chaos – fear and uncertainty.

Once we know what the problem is, we can address it and find healing. After healing, only a sense of the calm we once knew returns. We remain wary because the initial scare imparts a sobering realization: death is inevitable.

Reflecting on the Chaos

I was diagnosed with peripheral neuropathy in 2019. It marked the beginning of a challenging journey of living with chronic pain.

For a long time, I believed that my chaos began when I received the diagnosis. This led to an obsessive loop of pondering what I had done wrong to end up with nerve damage. It was only after I discovered that it was a potentially genetic illness that I found a sense of calm amid the chaos.

A Constant, Silent Companion

I can’t remember what it feels like to be without pain. I only know that its constant presence has changed my life.

At the end of 2019, I doubted my ability to continue teaching into 2020. The unforeseen arrival of COVID-19 and the national lockdown offered respite. I rested, but the pain persisted, unabated.

I returned to school in July 2020, and, for the rest of the year, the pain continued to impede my performance. Most of my responsibilities were stripped away, leaving only one: the act of teaching. By mid-2021, the pain was affecting my ability to focus during lessons, and I realized that my work was suffering. I also developed a gnawing guilt because my duties had become the responsibility of my colleagues. The pain, the lack of focus, and the guilt compelled me to initiate the process of medical retirement, and I embarked on a period of sick leave.

For almost a year, I was engulfed in self-pity and withdrew socially from all aspects of life. I soon felt disconnected from others. The everyday activities I once took for granted, like driving or walking through shops, became elusive.

A Predetermined Destiny

I used to think of health merely as the absence of illness or weakness, a static destination I could either reach or miss. For example, exercising regularly would mean I’m fit and healthy, and sticking to a balanced diet would add years to my life. I never saw health as an ongoing journey.

I never exercised and thought it was okay because I was making good choices by avoiding tobacco and alcohol – overlooking my greatest flaw: my sweet tooth. Friends in the past, especially when I was young, coaxed me into joining them in various activities, like participating in aerobic classes or jogging, but I never enjoyed it because it always made me feel ill. Perhaps an underlying condition thwarted my efforts to exercise and become fit. I cannot say. All I know is that swimming was the only exercise I could enjoy in my youth without feeling depleted in every aspect of my health – physically, mentally, and emotionally. There were times before, during, and after school galas when I didn’t feel well, but I always assumed it was related to the stress of competing.

Even if I had followed a path of nurturing my physical health, it wouldn’t have changed the outcome. Being diagnosed with a genetic illness renders the finality even more pronounced because my destiny was predetermined from the moment of conception. Does this knowledge make acceptance easier? No, it doesn’t. I move periodically through the stages of loss: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and temporary acceptance.

A New Normal

Living with chronic pain has reduced me to a state of wanting to move only when I must. It’s not a feasible option. Every doctor I’ve ever seen has urged me to move, not with the pain, but through it. If you’ve never lived with chronic pain, you won’t understand what moving through pain is. While this seems to be an impossible mission, I accomplish it every day.

To help you understand what moving through chronic pain is like, let me illustrate the experience. It’s not like water gushing through a pipe, where everything is confined to a single path. While our bodies, veins, and nerves might seem like pipes, pain doesn’t channel itself in such a linear way. Instead, it radiates. Imagine the aroma of food in the air – it permeates the space, becoming all you can smell. Similarly, pain permeates the body, or a specific area of the body, and becomes all you can feel.

Moving through the pain means you are absorbing the experience. No matter what you think, say, or do, you diffuse through the pain and try to function as normally as possible.

My Autobiography

The hardest thing for me is living with chronic pain. It’s probably the main reason why I decided to write this book. I want it to serve as a tool for introspection so that I can reach the destination of accepting my fate and move with the pain and through it as gracefully as I possibly can.

This book was born from a personal need for closure. I don’t want to waste precious energy, time, and courage dreaming of pain-free days. I want to make peace with what has happened and live my life fully.

In sharing my story, I hope my hardships and inner strength to move forward will empower those who suffer from the chaos of ill health and perhaps motivate them to share their story.

I believe that our shared stories pave a road of empathy and understanding. We contribute to a collective strength, where all our stories come together to create a powerful testimony of human resilience and perseverance.

My autobiography is dedicated to everyone experiencing invisible illnesses, chronic pain, and other challenges that disrupt their calm. I hope it will be a fountain of inspiration, a beacon of motivation, and a source of comfort for everyone who reads it.

The title: Padded Foot, Encumbered Mind

Every step I take is a negotiation, a delicate balance between the relentless demands of pain and the necessity of movement. My journey through life has been marked by different painful experiences, peripheral neuropathy being the worst and most enduring of them all.

My feet are the frontline soldiers in an unending battle against discomfort. For everything that needs to be done, I must be mentally prepared. My mind pads and protects my feet because they carry the weight of my world, both physically and metaphorically. The simple act of walking has become a strategic endeavour, and each movement is calculated to avoid exacerbating the pain. Time and distance, once measured in steps and strides, now hold a different significance. How long will it take to accomplish what must be done, and how far must I push myself to reach my destination? These questions, seemingly mundane, now shape the contours of my daily existence, guiding my every decision and action. What others may take for granted – unhindered mobility – has become my mental encumbrance, a constant reminder of the limitations imposed by my condition.

Thus begins the story of ‟Padded Foot, Encumbered Mind”, my story of resilience and unwavering determination to keep moving forward.