IN THE EARLY evening, I grab my basketball and head to the court a short walk from where I’ve been staying since moving back to Los Angeles from Japan.

The asphalt is blue like the deep sea. The court is slightly slanted, surrounded by dark green grass. Pine trees hang above. Through their branches, the rays of the setting sun gleam white and gold, casting light upon the court’s surface.

I dribble, shoot, and run some full court layups. There’s a little kid, probably eight years old, shooting on the other basket.

It may seem like no big deal, shooting hoops with music in my ears, sweat dampening my shirt, the sun on my face. But basketball makes me feel like a kid. For nearly the entirety of my twenties, I lost that feeling. I thought I’d never play basketball again pain-free.

But here I am. Nothing lasts forever.

I’ve dealt with chronic pain in my back and hips throughout my twenties, believing it derived from an injury that never healed. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t find any answers to lessen the pain through physical means — physical therapy, acupuncture, chiropractors, amongst other methods.

My body was just broken.

I simply carried on until nine months ago. I was living in Tokyo and under a lot of stress. Several flare-ups racked me, one after the other. I could barely stand for a month straight. How could my body feel this bad when nothing showed on the MRIs and no specialist could help?

Something had to change. There had to be another way, and there is. I embarked upon a spiritual odyssey by taking an emotional approach to the pain, embracing what’s called TMS (the mindbody syndrome).

Basketball was a huge part of my childhood, one that I look back on with a big smile. My childhood wasn’t perfect. No childhood is. But I had love, my best friends, and the things I enjoyed.

There are, of course, difficult memories. But looking back, what first comes to mind is warm nostalgia — middle school sleepovers and all night video game benders; endless sports and neighborhood adventures.

It’s not so much specific moments that come to mind, but feelings. Tastes. Smells. Grass stains, sunsets, yellow Gatorade, Goldfish. We were kids, and sports were everything.

I got older and played basketball, lacrosse, and golf for my high school. I was good, but deathly afraid to make mistakes. I played hard, but timidly, scared to disappoint the coach and my teammates.

I still deal with this, as I’m a recovering people-pleaser, worrier, perfectionist, a highly sensitive and self-critical person. These traits are common amongst chronic pain sufferers, as tension simmers in our nervous system when we conceal our emotion to avert a conflict in the external world.

To heal, I must unwind these tendencies by taking the pressure off. Still doing my best but having fun while I’m at it, more carefree, like I should have been then. It’s never too late to change.

I rekindled my love for basketball at Cal Poly San Luis Obispo, a university nestled on California’s central coast halfway between Los Angeles and San Francisco. I was no longer on a team, so I could just enjoy playing sports with my friends again. I became a well-rounded athlete, pushing myself hard in the gym.

I pushed myself because I love exercise, but there was a darkness there, too. After a night of partying, you could find me at the recreation center early in the morning, sweating it out with an intense workout.

I wasn’t kind to myself. It was college. I was there to have fun. But I wanted to look perfect, never feeling I was strong enough, good enough, lean enough. This need to be perfect is something I still grapple with. Slowly, however, I’m changing, showing myself greater compassion and kindness.

When college ended, I didn’t know what to do next. I felt lost; the inner conflict began, as well as the back pain. Weeks passed. Months. Years. I felt like a prisoner in my body, as I could find no healing through physical means and didn’t know where else to turn. It felt like I lost my innocence.

It may not have shown on the surface, but I felt shame for being in my twenties with back pain. I endured, praying for the day when it would just go away. But it didn’t. I’d walk by a basketball court and my blood would rise. My heart would ache. Tears would well up in my eyes.

Why did this happen to me? I’d wonder. I guess I’m an adult now, I thought, with grownup pains and seemingly unsolvable problems. I couldn’t play basketball and could hardly exercise without pain.

That killed me. My mind was spinning, but I couldn’t escape through physical means. All I wanted to do was sprint. Run as fast as I could. Sweat out the feelings like I did in college. But I couldn’t. So I started to write, breaking from the shackles of my mind on the page, and that’s what makes me believe it was all meant to be.

Writing made me feel less lost. And now, I had a story to tell.

In 2020, the basketball player Kobe Bryant died in a helicopter crash, along with his daughter, Gianna, and seven other people. His death at 41 shook the world, as Kobe wasn’t just one of the most exceptional athletes of all time. He was a father, husband, entrepreneur, philosopher, artist — my favorite athlete and such an inspiring individual to so many.

Kobe gave his life to basketball. He gave blood, sweat, tears and countless hours to a game, making him perhaps the best to ever do it.

And then, when starting the next chapter, his story was cut short. Was it fair? Of course not. It’s beyond that, a cosmic covenant beyond understanding.

At the time Kobe passed, I’d been in chronic pain for a few years. At that point on my journey, I knew my situation was deeper than just fixing a broken body. It had to do with faith, love, pain, sacrifice, destiny.

It was and continues to be my hero’s journey, something Kobe would understand. I swore that I’d play basketball again pain-free, and I’d do it for him. But when I made that promise, I heard him say, do it for you, young man.

That gave me strength. To remind myself to never give in, I got it tattooed on my arm: keep the faith. 

It’s been seven years — six of which I spent trying to heal physically with no success. But nine months ago when I began my spiritual odyssey, I learned from the pioneer of mindbody healing Dr. John Sarno that I’d have to get back to everything I was doing physically before the chronic pain began, everything that scared me now.

That meant I had to ball. When we confront our chronic pain-related fears, we show the brain that there is no danger. It may produce painful sensations, but if we remain calm and just keep at it, the brain will eventually get the picture.

Pain is a safety mechanism. But with chronic pain, the sensations are a malfunction. We must take our lives back and show the brain who’s boss.

I bought some shoes and a ball and found a court along the train tracks near Takadanobaba Station. I started hooping, often through the pain, as my brain was still conditioned to believe something was wrong. But the more I challenged my brain, the less painful it became.

The pain continues to fade as I learn to be a kid again, finding joy in the things I love.

Pain is an unescapable part of life. It’s not something we can always control, but we can determine how we respond, with fear and worry, or with play, curiosity, wonder.

It’s surreal, but I can’t believe I’m back. I fought for this return. My eyes tear up again and again while on a run, or lifting weights, or shooting hoops. Nobody truly knows what I’ve been through. Nobody knows what you’re enduring.

It doesn’t matter. I’ll never know why it happened to me, but overcoming pain is part of my destiny. While in the throes of it, I told myself I’d be happy if I wasn’t in pain, no matter what else was going on.

But to truly heal, I’d have to be happy despite the pain. There’s no time to defer our happiness. We decide to be happy, to hoop, to smile, to take in the sunshine and the rain irrespective of what we endure. That’s how we change our brains, and thus, our bodies.

I did it, Kobe. I’m hooping again carefree. I’ve come full circle as I return to the court, not the same kid I was, but a kid again, having gained wisdom from losing, and regaining, what I love.

The orange ball gets scuffed with chalk as I dribble. My hands collect dirt and dust. I’m sweating, endorphins flowing, mind easing. The sun’s going down, the air is warm, my head clears. I mess around on the court, then lay down on the bleacher when I’m done shooting, tossing the ball above me in the air, looking into the blue sky and green trees.

As I leave, I pop my head into the indoor gym and glimpse a coach standing above a group of kids in basketball uniforms, giving directions with a grin on his face.

I smile. That will be me someday. I wanna be a coach for my kids, a part of the community, an inspiration. Perhaps I can show whatever kids I coach that there’s nothing to fear, in sports, or in life.

Just play with all your heart.

Note: the author of this post is not a health care practitioner, and this should not be considered medical advice.