My Story

Living with whiplash can feel like you’re trapped in a body you no longer recognize. ​

Whether it started after a car crash, a fall, a sports injury, or for reasons you still don’t fully understand. The pain creeps in, stays, and slowly chips away at your confidence. It’s not just the stiffness or the aching. It’s the feeling that your body is falling apart. Movements you once did without thinking now come with hesitation. You lose trust in your body. You wonder if you’ll ever feel strong, normal, or free again. And worst of all, it can feel like no one truly gets it.

I want to share my story. Not because it’s dramatic or unique, but because maybe in it, you’ll recognize something that might help you. 

“One moment I was chasing fresh snow ,the next, everything went dark. And when I woke up, I wasn’t sure if I’d ever feel normal again.”

It happened on what should have been one of the best days of my ski season. It had snowed all night. The kind of snow that makes skiers leap out of bed in excitement. My friend woke me up shouting “Powder day!” and without thinking twice, I rushed to get my gear on and hit the slopes. The visibility was awful, heavy snowfall, strong winds, and I could barely see a few meters ahead. I was following my friend down the mountain, struggling to see anything because of the snow flying in my face.

I thought I knew where I was, but I was wrong. In my mind, I was just skiing down a smooth section. But out of nowhere, I hit something hard. A hidden ridge or track I hadn’t seen. I came to an immediate, violent stop. (video)

In that instant, I knew something was wrong. My face was bleeding, my helmet was cracked, but what scared me most was my neck. It felt… wrong. Not just sore, like something fundamental had shifted. I could feel tingling running through my body, and for a terrifying moment, I thought: Am I paralyzed?

But I was running on adrenaline. I pushed the fear aside, stood up, and kept skiing down to catch up with my friends. I told them what had happened, still hoping maybe I just needed a minute to recover. We took the chairlift back up. That’s when everything went black.

I really thought I was dying.

I passed out on the lift. Everything faded. I remember seeing a tunnel of light and feeling this strange, calm thought: “I’m happy with the life I’ve lived. I can go in peace.” I felt an odd sense of calm.

About ten minutes later, I came back to consciousness with my friend pulling me off the chairlift. What followed was a mess. Ski patrol sent me down the gondola alone, and I somehow made my way to a small local hospital, which was basically still closed when I arrived. I sat there in the dark, waiting two hours before anyone showed up. I was terrified. I didn’t know if my neck was broken. I kept thinking, What if this is permanent? What if I can never ski again? Never move the same? It felt like my whole future was slipping away right in front of me.

They took an X-ray and told me nothing was broken. Gave me some painkillers and sent me home. I was relieved it wasn’t worse. But the days that followed were rough. I could barely move my neck and had to roll out of bed like a robot, every motion stiff and awkward. Still, I tried to live as normally as I could. I went to work, pushed through the days, and hoped things would improve. And slowly, they did. Week by week, the pain began to ease, and I really thought I was recovering. But 6 months later, the pain returned. And this time, it never fully left.

The pain is real. Even if no one can see it.

To this day, I still feel it. The pain is real. No matter what the doctors said, no matter what the scans showed, the physical and emotional toll was undeniable. The kind of pain that doesn’t just go away with time. It lingers, shifts, and keeps you wondering if it will ever stop.

Chronic pain, especially something like whiplash can be invisible to others. You might look fine on the outside, and people might expect you to be better by now. But on the inside, you’re battling a constant weight. The fatigue, the aching, the fear of it never ending. You can feel like you’re fighting an uphill battle no one else understands. But it’s real, and you don’t have to hide that.

Pain isn’t just physical. It affects every part of you. From your energy and your focus to your motivation and even your outlook on life. It can make you doubt yourself, your abilities, and your future. And when it doesn’t go away, it becomes part of who you are.

But your pain is valid. You’re not imagining it, and you’re not weak for feeling it. You deserve understanding, compassion, and help. Not just from others, but also from yourself.

If you’re living with it too, I want you to know: I see you. I’ve been there. And I believe there’s a way through it.

The Struggle of Living in Pain

There was a point when everything felt like it was falling apart. My neck pain was relentless. It didn’t just come and go. It was constant, a daily battle. I couldn’t escape it. Every movement felt like it made the pain worse, and I couldn’t shake the fear of it getting worse. My body felt like it was failing me, and I wasn’t sure how much longer I could go on like this.

I pushed through, as I always had. I tried to keep working, keep living as if everything was normal. But my neck just wouldn’t cooperate. The pain grew worse, and soon I started experiencing tightness in my chest. My heart would race at random moments, and I began having palpitations that left me feeling anxious and confused. It felt like something was seriously wrong with me, something more than just my neck.

But when I went to the doctor, they found nothing physically wrong with my heart. In hindsight, I realized that what I was feeling wasn’t really about my heart at all. It was the mental toll of living with constant pain. The stress, the fear, the anxiety of never getting better. Iit all started to add up. My neck pain was taking over my life, and that created a mental battle that was just as tough to deal with as the physical one.

At that time, it felt like I was stuck in an endless cycle. The more I tried to push through, the more exhausted I became. It was like my body was at war with itself. And honestly, the hardest part wasn’t just the physical pain. It was the fear of never finding relief, of never being able to feel normal again. That was the real darkness for me.

But here’s the thing, even in the darkest moments, there is a way out. It took time, patience, and a lot of soul-searching, but I began to realize that healing isn’t just about the physical part of recovery. It’s also about embracing the mental part. Accepting that there will be bad days, but knowing that the pain doesn’t define who you are. Little by little, I found ways to move forward. And even though the road is still tough, I believe now that I will get better, and so can anyone else going through this. Healing is possible.

What Helped Me (Even Just a Little)

The truth is: most treatments didn’t really help. The sports doctor gave me an MRI, which at least ruled out structural damage. That gave me some peace of mind.

Some chiropractors and MSK specialists tried to “fix” me, but I often left feeling worse. It was scary how much focus they put on misalignments and scoliosis, which probably had been there my whole life. It just added more fear.

But a few things did help:

There’s no magical cure, unfortunately. But what helped me was a combination of small things that, together, kept me grounded.

Why I Created This Website

Because I know what it’s like to feel completely alone in your pain.

To wake up every day and have the first thing you feel be pain.

To search Google at 2am wondering if you’ll ever feel normal again.

I’m still on this journey. I still have pain every day. But I’m beginning to accept it, and I believe I can get better. Even if slowly. Even if it’s not a straight line.

If this site can help even one person feel less alone, more hopeful, or a little more informed or maybe even feel better then it’s worth it.

To You, the Reader

If you’re reading this and you’re in pain: I see you.

You’re not crazy. You’re not weak. And you’re not alone.

I don’t have all the answers, but I’ll share what I’ve tried, what’s helped, and what I wish someone had told me.

There is a way forward.

To help you get started, I put together a guide with the things that helped me the most. Practical tools, simple routines, and ways to slowly rebuild trust in your body. It’s the kind of support I wish I had when everything felt overwhelming.

Start Here