Torque
I feel like a circus performer balancing on a high wire as I stand in line at the post office today. I sway—a few inches left, a few inches right – struggle to stay steady and upright in equilibrium. The familiar torque in my body—the convex side bending left with gravity, the concave side pulling right—makes me acutely aware of the energy I expend just to remain standing. Scoliosis demands so much of my attention. I wonder: am I ever fully present?
The long line of people at the post office inches forward in silence. I rest my left hand against a waist-high glass display case to steady the weaving. An elderly man in a wheelchair moves close behind me, the front of his chair hovers near my ankles. I tense, hypervigilant. If he bumps into me, will I topple onto him? I shift, barely perceptible, but the man in front of me leaves little space. Anxiety flares. Familiar pinpricks start at the crown of my head and travel down to my feet. My spine locks. Hands clench. Heart pounds. A voice inside me calls out its old refrain: I am trapped. Get me out of here. Get me out of my body so I can think! The room narrows. Awareness of my surroundings dissolves. A tide swells inside. I am flooded.
A few moments pass. Then I hear a woman’s voice—warm, kind—as she offers help to the man in the wheelchair. She acts like a longtime friend might. I turn and see him struggling with one of those flat, pre-folded cardboard boxes the post office provides. “Yes, I would, please,” he replies, open and receptive. I watch as the two of them work to fold and seal the sides of the box, fit the pre-set bands of tape into place and leave the top open. A baseball cap rests in his lap, ready for mailing.
My panic begins to ease. The resignation from the people in line softens when several conversations begin. I watch the one clerk at the counter—earnest and attentive—as she helps a customer choose stamps. The sunlight filters through a bank of windows, pools gently across the floor. A whisper of air cools my face. I look up and take comfort in the open rafters above us, all that air space—room to breathe, to just be. We are people sending and receiving our small offerings on a lovely spring day.
The clerk calls me forward. At the counter, I address an envelope to my nephew and his wife, a gift for their new baby. Just then, the man in the wheelchair rolls up beside me. A second clerk has opened her station. I glance at him. He briefly looks back. His eyes are clear, his complexion rosy. Something tender rises in me for him. Gratitude, too—for the counter, and the moment of balance it gives me as I gently lean against it and hold for the length of a breath—fully present.
And this is enough for today.
For twenty years, I’ve lived with this slow, tightening torque in my spine—set in motion by a sudden impact, a moment of force my body never fully absorbed or released. It happened on a wet and foggy summer morning. My nine-year-old niece, Nicole, and I hiked with a foster dog into the East Bay hills above Berkeley. He was young, large—an eighty-pound mutt with solid muscle and boundless energy. A handful. Halfway up the path, he bolted, ignoring our urgent pleas to “Come here!” Soon we heard his barking, mixed with frantic, guttural moos from a cow.
When we reached the crest of the hill, we looked down and saw the scene. A mother cow, wild-eyed, bellowed as she repeatedly head-butted the dog, fending him off from her calves. She was frenzied.
I told Nicole to stay put while I went down to retrieve the dog. As I reached for his leash, I slipped on the wet grass and fell hard onto my back. In an instant, the cow turned from the dog and lunged at me. Her front hooves landed on my legs. I screamed—a sound primal and breaking—just before her head rose and aimed straight for mine. In that instant, I twisted violently to the left, wrenched my body over, and rolled down the hill, away from her.
I laid in agony and yelled for Nicole to get help. I heard her brave voice: “I will.” By an unexpected grace, she met friends of mine along the trail, who soon returned with a ranger, a jeep, and an ambulance nearby. Miraculously, my legs weren’t broken. But not long after, while standing in the shower, I felt a deep pop inside my torso, like a rubber band pulled too tight, finally snapping. A month or so later, I noticed a portion of my lower back protruding. That’s when my permanent journey with scoliosis and its torque began—a constant fight with gravity.
My journey with torque has taken me to countless practitioners—chiropractors, physical therapists, acupuncturists, physiatrists, neurologists, orthopedic surgeons. Aside from the one who wanted to break my back and thread in a metal rod, most offered only palliative care—ways to ease the pain, especially when walking or standing. In time, I outgrew their treatments. What remained was self-acceptance, unfolding through the patchwork of tips and tricks that keep me upright, vertical, perpendicular, straight.
It used to be so easy to exist in space—to move, to speak, to smile. What a gift, that quiet miracle of a body moving freely through the world. To simply be. But with self-acceptance, I’ve left that simplicity behind. Living in this body is more complex now—yet, paradoxically, more freeing. The need to be upright matters less than the need to be present. And this, now, is the balance I seek: not straightness, but wholeness.
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About the Author
Linda Henderson has been writing for over forty years, blending academic work with personal expression. A published communication scholar, Linda has written numerous research articles, but her most cherished work is a personal essay about her mother’s efforts to raise five children, which received a creative writing award from TCU. In personal writing, Linda explores the emotional and physical pain from a spinal injury with its accompanying depression and anxiety. Her writing reflects a journey of self-compassion and hope, often moving from pain and suffering to reemergence. Through her words, Linda continues to find healing and resilience, sharing an honest perspective on the human experience.