The Pain No One Can See: My Life With CRPS

As soon as I open my eyes—lightning. An electric charge rushes through my hands, arms, and back. The tightness in my muscles begs for release, but instead, they constrict tighter around my spine. Gritting my teeth, I pull myself out of bed, wincing with every movement.

Mornings are never easy.

Still, there's somewhere I need to be, so I plan my day accordingly. Save energy for this. Save energy for that. A daily mantra I chant over and over until it's become a part of me.

Evening comes, and I’m surrounded by others at an event. It took everything in me to get presentable. Now that I’ve finally reclined in my seat, the pain comes back full throttle.

I keep smiling. Despite the burning in my core, the stabbing pains all over, I smile, I laugh. I try not to wince too hard when someone touches me. I tell myself: Don’t bring down the mood. Don’t worry others. Besides, I wouldn't even know how to explain it.

This is my reality. This is life with CRPS.

CRPS isn’t normal pain. It’s agony. And it’s invisible. If you wear a cast or use crutches, people notice. They sympathize, they offer to help. But what happens when the pain is hidden beneath the skin?

What happens when no one can see it?

Your body burns from the inside out. It feels as though your bones are being crushed under a massive weight. Stabbing, searing, relentless. CRPS betrays your own body, torturing it. And yet—no one can see it.

The frustration of living with invisible pain is something only those who endure it truly understand. Not everyone realizes how lonely it can be—how isolating it feels to suffer in silence. And because they can’t see it, they often don’t believe it.

I’ve had this happen with friends. With family.

One family member rolled his eyes and told me to “stop exaggerating.”
A friend got frustrated when I needed help with something. “Everyone can do that,” she said.
But not everyone has to do it while battling CRPS.

CRPS doesn’t just attack the body. It wears down the mind, the heart, the soul. The loneliness, depression, and anxiety can feel like secondary symptoms of this disease. So to anyone reading this, I want to say:

I’m sorry for the pain you endure. No, you’re not exaggerating. No, you’re not weak. And no, it’s not all in your head.

Your pain is real. And it is valid.

While there is no cure, there are ways to cope. Finding what brings you comfort is crucial—even if it takes trial and error.

For me, essential oils are a small but powerful tool. I love lemon and lavender. Lemon for a mood boost, lavender for relaxation. Pain often keeps me up at night and lavender helps me to sleep. This information is for informational purposes only and should not be considered medical advice. Please consult a qualified healthcare professional or medical physician before making any decisions regarding your health, diagnosis, or treatment.

On particularly rough days, I take a warm bath with Epsom salt. If I’m able, I rub some on my sorest areas and soak for about an hour.

And when the pain flares? Comfort is key. Soft, thin clothing for days when I’m overheating. Fluffy blankets for when I’m stiff and cold. You have to find what works for you. Be patient with yourself.

And most importantly—on days when you feel alone, remember: you’re not.

There is a community of people who understand exactly what you’re going through. And even those who don’t experience CRPS can learn.

Yes, I lost a friend who dismissed my pain.
But I also gained a friend who did extensive research on CRPS just to help me find relief.

You will find the right people. It takes time, but they are out there.

As you walk this CRPS journey, I hope this blog brings you even the smallest bit of comfort. Know that I’m rooting for you.

We may live with invisible pain, but our fight is very real.

Glow on, you got this!

With Warmth & Resilience

Tala Röse