Before October 2022, my life was full and vibrant. I was building a future with my partner Jake and her son Bodhi, running a business I cared deeply about, and making music with my brother Rayvn. I felt alive—passionate, creative, grounded in purpose.

 

Then, everything changed.

 

​​On October 18, 2022, I had a routine dental procedure: tooth 1.1 was extracted. Years earlier, it had undergone a root canal, and the dentist had left a 3mm metal file tip embedded past the root. That piece came out with the tooth. Almost immediately, I began experiencing searing, persistent nerve pain—burning, numbness, and pressure radiating from the socket along the maxillary and trigeminal nerves, wrapping around the back of my head, down my neck, into my back, and throughout the right side of my body. But the most intense pain remained concentrated in the maxillary area. And it never stopped. It was there 24/7.

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At first, I assumed it would pass. Post operative pain like this, they said, usually improves within weeks or months. But mine didn’t. Instead, it intensified. Eventually, a neurologist looked me in the eyes and said the words no one wants to hear:
“You’ll have this for the rest of your life.”

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Apparently, after 18 months, most people don’t escape this kind of chronic facial nerve pain.
Spoiler: I did.

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The early months were brutal. I had no idea what was happening, and the medical system offered little clarity or support. I was in so much pain I could barely function. I couldn’t get out of bed, help with the little one, cook, use a screen, be in a lit room, or even hold a conversation. I needed full-time care. I was stuck in a body that was screaming, isolated in pain, watching my mental health unravel.

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Despite seeing countless doctors, I got no clear answers. My sensitivity to light and sound became extreme. Eventually, my whole upper body—especially the right side—was in pain. I cycled through physical torment, emotional darkness, and the crushing weight of hopelessness.

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After endless appointments, I received a loose diagnosis: Anesthesia Dolorosa, Dental Neuralgia, and Central Sensitization. Labels, but no real roadmap.

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So I turned to medication. I tried everything—drugs meant to calm nerves, dull sensation, sedate my body into compliance. Many had awful side effects: motion sickness, nausea, numb emotions, brain fog, rage, anxiety, depression. I was constantly walking a tightrope between nerve pain and the side effects of the drugs that were supposed to help. Still, some meds gave me partial relief—specifically, Pregabalin, Duloxetine, and Oxcarbazepine. They helped me tolerate light, sound, and mild stimulation.

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But I was stuck in a frustrating loop: feel a bit better, do more, crash harder. Repeat. My world shrank, and the medications left me exhausted, disconnected, and overwhelmed. Even everyday emotions or decisions could trigger a flare.

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One of the most painful parts was the invisibility of it all. People would see me out in the world and assume I was fine. What they didn’t see was the price I paid just to be there—or how far I would crash afterward. I wasn’t living. I was surviving.

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Over two years, I tried everything: oral surgeons, pain specialists, neurologists, acupuncture, osteopathy, massage, cranial-sacral therapy, counseling, anesthetic nerve blocks, opioids, Gabapentin, Baclofen, Clonidine, Nabilone, Memantine, Ketamine, cannabis, alcohol, meditation, and even cobra snake venom. Nothing truly helped, except the heavy drugs—and even they came with a steep cost. I felt like an escape artist, constantly running from my pain.

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Eventually, like many who suffer from chronic pain, I gave up. I told myself, “This is just going to be my life.” I was jaded. I was tired. And I was closed off to any more disappointment.

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Then, about 18 months in, someone connected me to a doctor who said something different:
“There are tools out there for chronic pain rehabilitation. Check out the Curable app. And read The Way Out by Alan Gordon and Alon Ziv.”

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I did. I read the book. I opened the app. I tried the CBT (cognitive behavioral therapy) tools.
But nothing changed. I was still drowning in pain and too skeptical to believe that this could work for someone like me—especially when I hadn’t heard of anyone with facial pain recovering using this approach.

Another year passed.

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Then, during a crushing flare-up, I hit rock bottom again. In desperation, I turned back to the internet and found Niki’s story—“Gaining Power Over Trigeminal Neuralgia” on the Curable website. Watching her speak, something ignited in me. For the first time, I didn’t feel so alone. I thought:
“If she can do it, I can do it. I’m going all in. I’m going to be pain-free.”

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Interestingly, Alan Gordon himself resisted this path for a year before truly committing. So maybe I wasn’t behind—just ready.

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And then, something incredible happened.

The first time one of the CBT techniques worked—just a little—I knew.
Game on.

From that moment, I never lost faith. It was hard—some days were hell—but I kept going. And little by little, I started to climb out.

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Motivated to reclaim my full self, I decided to taper off my medications. Slowly and carefully, I weaned off everything over five months. The withdrawals were difficult, but after three months fully off, the side effects faded and my clarity began to return.

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Today, I’ve gained a deep sense of control over my chronic facial pain.

I went from 24/7 agony to the occasional flare-up—each one manageable with a safety-first mindset. I still have ups and downs, but now I’m living, not just surviving.

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And the longer I stay in this mindset of safety, belief, and self-regulation, the less frequently the pain shows up—and the less power it has over me.

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If you’re still in the dark, I want you to hear this clearly:
There is a way out.
You're not broken. You're not alone. And you're not beyond hope.

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There is a way through this. And I’d be honored to walk it with you.