Last month was the two year anniversary of my back surgery. There are several benchmarks in my life – moments that changed my life from that point forward. Most of them, however, are quiet signposts: no one else but me and those very close to me might notice. But, when you go from hiking 20 miles one day to a wheelchair two months later, there is not much more that can be so publicly apparent – or for some – startling.

The surgery was a gift. This comes humbly from someone who had never taken an anti-inflammatory, didn't have their own doctor, and certainly had never been in a hospital. Since 11, I've been blessed to use acupuncture and herbal medicine as my primary care and it worked for me. Flashforward to some late day in May 2008 where to celebrate a decision to finally quit a 13 year career in the nonprofit legal aid sector, I hiked 20 miles only to find the next day I was standing crooked. I guess there was pain, but I had lived with such chronic pain in my back for years and this initially did not register as something to complain. For me, pain didn't count if I could still be as active as I wanted. That would change. Two months later, I had a surgery to remove a 17 - 20 mm herniated disc that had broken off and was sitting on the nerve root controlling my left leg. “In a different era, I'd be put out to pasture.” It was a frequent thought while laying under my mom and husband's care in the space they created for me in the backyard. As a dear friend of mine put it, “Surgery pushes the body to heal at the pace of the mind, rather than at it's own timeline.” Truth is, the surgery restored the crude use of my left leg, but the long road to recovery started the day after.

This morning while gardening, I remembered that I had wanted to write about my two year anniversary. Nothing is more of a compliment to recovery than the act of remembering. See, when you're physically able and enjoying what you're doing, you have the luxury of forgetting it was any other way. The moment of memory brings with it humbling gratitude and joy. You never know for sure in all the prior moments of pain and self-doubt whether the promise of health is a mirage or a matter of time. This morning, I felt the gratitude for perseverance: I have worked hard for this moment. I'm reaping the seeds planted some time earlier when pain forbids forgetting. And, there is a deep knowing within me that I have the skills and intention aligned to keep this path moving beyond recovery.

Many people and practitioners assume that because I am a practitioner of Oriental Medicine, I attribute acupuncture as responsible for my healing. What few know is that in the year and a half I took off to devote to my full recovery, despite my deep connection to the medicine as a patient and practitioner, I contemplated never practicing again. Pain endured for long periods of time makes you raw. What is tolerable when healthy becomes wounding when ill. Practitioners without skills to listen or to escort health or even simply to perform their art without making things worse can underscore the isolation inherent with pain's path.

I finally found someone whom I trust with my health and I made a commitment to myself – with or without pain – I would receive acupuncture twice a week as my own preventative and restorative medicine for the duration of my life. Why? It restores the health of my back. It lightens my heart. And, it's time for me every week in which I get to reflect and make good on an intention to well-being.

For those of you who have chronic pain or a resume of injuries, I invite a commitment. Not the sort where you are treated once or twice until you feel better than you did, but a commitment to you that spans who you are over days, weeks, months, years, and decades. This is the story of wellness and the chapter can begin today.