My Spine, My Story

For Scoliosis Awareness Month

I was diagnosed with scoliosis when I was 17 years old.

Until then, I had regular yearly checkups. No one ever mentioned anything unusual about my spine. There were no warnings, no early signs flagged. Everything seemed fine—until I suddenly found myself in pain that wouldn’t go away. I couldn’t sit, lie down, or walk without discomfort. No position helped.

Eventually, I was referred to a specialist. The diagnosis was idiopathic scoliosis:
a right convex thoracic curve and a left convex lumbar curve.
They sent me to check if I was eligible for a brace, but I was told I had finished growing.
Instead, I was recommended physiotherapy.

I followed the plan, and after about three months, the pain disappeared.

At the time, I was very physically active—playing volleyball, basketball, handball. Later, at university, I attended aerobic classes regularly. Since I had no symptoms, I gradually forgot about my scoliosis.

But it didn’t forget about me.

Couple of years later, the pain returned.

This time, I discoverd Yoga. It was the year 2000, and I remember how different it felt—not just in my body, but in my mind. From the very first class, something clicked. The practice wasn’t only physical—it offered a sense of inner calm I hadn’t realized I was missing.

I stopped practicing for several years, through many life transitions: a move to the Middle East, later to Canada, marriage, and motherhood. Like many women, I found myself pulled in many directions. With responsibilities came less time for myself. Slowly, I stopped paying attention to my own body.

Pain became something I just lived with.

I remember waking up and needing a few minutes to stand fully upright. Looking back, I can see how disconnected I had become from my spine—and from my self-awareness.

Until one day, everything stopped. I couldn’t move at all. I lay in bed, unable to lift my arms or legs, overwhelmed by pain and frustration. My husband carried me into the bathtub with Epsom salts. I cried, not just from the pain, but from the realization that I had let things go for too long.

At that time, I was running a daycare. I was carrying not only my own child but many others—often on my right hip. It was the most convenient way to hold them, but over time it added a lot of strain to my already curved spine.

That day was a wake-up call. I decided I had to prioritize self-care—and my spine.

I returned to yoga. I saw chiropractors. The pain slowly went away again.

But something had shifted.
Yoga was no longer just a way to feel good—it became my anchor. A daily check-in. A way to stay connected to myself.

Eventually, I decided to train as a yoga teacher.

As someone who studied psychology I noticed connection between the body and mind were too strong to ignore. The teachings of yoga and Ayurveda began to blend naturally with what I had learned in psychology: how we carry stress, how we hold tension, how pain and emotion are often intertwined.

I now teach from that space.

I pay close attention to how my students move, what they say, and what their bodies might be expressing. My goal isn’t just to get them deeper into a pose—but to help them understand themselves through movement.

Still, I’ve had moments where my own journey has been challenged.

During one of my yoga trainings, a teacher looked at me and said:
“Stand straight. What kind of teacher walks like that?”
It hurt. But I smiled and replied,
“I will. I’m getting there.”

And I meant it.

I can do headstands, backbends, shoulder stands. But I choose them carefully.
No matter how well I support myself I often feel sensitivity in my neck and back afterward. So I practice in a way that honors my spine and what it needs—not what looks impressive.

When I entered menopause, I noticed new changes in my body and energy. I went in for a new X-ray—more than thirty years after my original diagnosis.

This time, they saw:

• A curve in my cervicothoracic spine

• A right thoracic curve

• And a left lumbar curve

  There was also a reversal in my natural cervical curve, a loss of thoracic kyphosis, and some flattening in my lumbar spine. My spine now has eight vertebral rotations.

But here’s what matters: my shoulders and hips are still level.
And most days, I’m not in pain.

Yoga and physical activity are still my foundation.
They help me manage stress, stay grounded, and remain connected to my body—especially during times of transition.

I remember learning about the chakras during one of my teacher training sessions. I asked myself,
Can my chakras be aligned when my spine isn’t?
Of course, the chakra system is about energy, not bone structure—but still, I found myself reflecting on it.

There’s a teaching in yoga that says a rigid spine might reflect a rigid personality. I’ve often wondered if I’m the opposite—maybe too flexible in character. Always adjusting. Always carrying more than I need to.

Not long ago, I had another flare-up. A friend of mine—a skilled energy healer—offered to support me.

She asked, “What would you like to work on?”

I said, “My right hip pain.”

She paused. “You don’t want to work on your scoliosis?”

That moment stayed with me.

I realized I had accepted scoliosis as part of me—not with resignation, but with peace.
Maybe on some level, I believe I don’t need to fix it.
Or maybe I don’t believe I can. I’m still exploring that.

What I do know is: this condition has shaped me. It has helped me build a strong relationship with my body. And it has deepened my understanding of others who live with discomfort—whether physical, emotional, or both.

My scoliosis includes moderate and milder curves, but my experience hasn’t always been mild.

Scoliosis affects an estimated 2–3% of the population, with women more commonly affected than men.
Many people live with it unknowingly. And many normalize pain they don’t have to live with.

If you’re living with discomfort—or you’ve forgotten to check in with your body—I want to remind you:

It’s never too late to begin listening. You don’t have to be pain-free to begin healing.
And you don’t need to be perfect to feel whole.

Yoga didn’t fix me.
It helped me understand myself.

That’s why I practice.
That’s why I teach.
That’s why I pay attention—to myself, and to others.

In every yoga class.
In every asana.
In every breath that brings me home.

With warmth and respect,
Andrijana