Mid-November, I’m standing in line at World Market and suddenly my right glute feels like it’s being stabbed by a dull, rusty kitchen knife. I lean on the cart and try to distract myself by checking out Hot Wasabi Peas, Green Juice face masks, and other impulse purchases lining the check-out aisle. My mind can’t dampen the physical pain. I pick my right leg off the floor, thinking less weight would decrease the intensity. No relief.

I grimace my way to my car and leave the cart right next to it—a totally rude move for which you have my permission to judge me–but fifty more steps feels like fifty miles. A twenty-minute drive with the seat heater blasting lessens the pain enough so that by the time I get home, I question my memory of its intensity. It wasn’t THAT bad, was it?

After all, I was still showing up for intense strength class and bike sessions regularly. Plus, the holidays and college application deadlines were coming up. I do what I’ve always done: ignore the situation, telling myself it will resolve with time.

I should know better by now.

I trudge through the holidays, spending copious amounts of time in a figure-four stretch and googling, “Deep glute pain.” Neither really help, but at least I feel like I’m doing something.

At the end of January, nearly three months after I felt the first pain, I finally cry uncle. I connect with a physical therapist at the gym I go to, and invest in ten sessions of physical therapy. Both Grant, my husband, and I are self-employed, and our insurance policy is a no-frills, high-deductible one that doesn’t cover any kind of PT, so ten sessions truly feels like an investment.

After about three sessions, I feel enough relief to enable me to hike 20 miles at Mammoth March in Arizona in mid-February. I know: I am terribly surprised, as is my PT. Distracting, fun conversations with my co-hikers and regular doses of Advil helped quite a bit. Afterwards, I continue to do the heavy lifting sessions that likely played a big part in getting me into this situation. When I squat with a barbell, I can see my reflection lilting to the right, an indication of how tight my right side is as I compensate for whatever is going on.

In between in the PT sessions, I am also touring colleges with Ben, my high school senior, which means miles of walking, the thing that reliably causes the most consistent, nagging pain.

The biggest day was when we visited the University of Utah (upper left corner): two flights + four airports in one day will rack up the steps.

Sometimes I am fine, but more often than not, the knife is lodged in my glute and I’m doing my best not to limp. When it gets really bad, I find a bench or curb and contort my body into the stretches and moves that provide temporary relief. (Ben, being the 17-year-old he is, crosses the street and pretends like he doesn’t know me.)

The PT ten-pack comes to an end, and I’m torn. My appointments make me feel seen and cared for, and I feel slightly better, but I’m not confident of how beneficial another round would be. I’m craving two things: more information on what exactly is going on and a feeling of more space in my spine.

I let a few weeks of any care lapse, and I’m back to square one. At my request, my PT orders an MRI, which I call for an estimate. I also look into a chiropractic course of treatment, which is roughly the same price of the MRI.

During our college visits, Ben, who is a day camp counselor for his summer job, often pulls out a line he uses on his second grade group: “Are we making good choices?” Sometimes it’s in a humorous way directed at both of us (should we really buy a big bag of Twizzlers for this flight?), and sometimes it’s aimed at me, his way of asking me to reconsider the way I’ll often just say, “I’m fine,” when I’m really not.

I opt for the chiropractic care, which turns out to be not just straight adjustments but also dry needling, myofascial release, and gym sessions to help with movement patterns. The first round, five weeks of three weekly visits, gets me out of the acute stage. I have a few days where I’m nearly pain free. When I get home from a 30-minute dog walk and no pain, I’m nearly in tears.

I’m currently in the second stage: two weekly visits for eight weeks. The cost has surpassed that of the MRI, but I am confident this treatment and the structure it provides is the right choice.

Other good choices I’ve made recently:

I choose not to minimize my pain anymore.
No, a pinched nerve, stenosis, and two thin, degenerating discs is not life threatening, but I also feel the pain acutely when I’m going to sleep, when I get up to pee, when I’m chopping veggies, when I’m watching bad TV. It’s pretty non-stop, and not acknowledging the toll that takes on my energy and spirit is not a good choice.

I choose to financially invest in my body.
A hard choice, given that we have two college-aged kids and all the expenses that go along with this stage, but as I processed everything, I realized it’s easier for me to justify spending money on my hair or my house than it is on my body. That’s not a smart choice.

I choose to (do my best to) keep my ego out of it.
I wanted to be able to squat and deadlift and lift heavy sh*t like I know I should as a menopausal woman, but that’s also not a good choice right now.

Better choice: Opting for a class where I can do bodyweight squats and deadlifts with one light kettlebell and two yoga blocks to bring the ground closer to me, and concentrates on on pelvic tilts, ankle mobility, hip strength and all the other things that aren’t sexy or impressive but will help rebuild my body.

I choose to make the good choices, even when they are hard.
The week prior to the Mammoth March in Delaware Valley, I hoped for another Arizona miracle. But then I talked to a good friend who asked me why I would hike 20 miles on a body that’s just beginning to feel better.

“My chiro said it would only set me back a little bit,” I answered, and as I said so, I heard myself making a bad choice. So I set up a plan—a husband of a BAMR would pick me up at mile 8, 10, or 12—prior to flying east. (I knew if I allowed myself to make a game-day decision, I’d go the full 20.)

At 52, I want to think my decision framework should be more rational and sophisticated than that which governs sunburned second-graders high on Capri Suns and Oreos, but then again, it’s probably just that simple. Make good choices.