Stories From the Stage

When the Pain Stopped

Most hypnosis stage shows follow a predictable rhythm. You show up, meet the client, run the tech check, greet the audience, invite volunteers, and guide a group of people into a surprisingly entertaining version of their subconscious minds.

That was the plan the night I performed for a corporate event at a logistics company. There were about 150 people in the audience. Around ten volunteers made their way to the stage. The show itself was functional—smooth, proficient, maybe even polished—but nothing I’d put in a highlight reel. People had fun, and when it was over, they clapped, thanked me, and started filing out into the night.

I was packing up my laptop, ready to leave, when a young man who had been one of the volunteers approached me. He looked a little unsure of himself but stepped forward and asked:

“Hey… can I ask you a question?”

“Of course,” I said. “How can I help?”

What he said next is the reason this story is being told.

He explained that he had been in a serious car accident some time ago. It had caused significant damage to his back. After a long period of healing and consultation, doctors told him he’d need surgery. So he had the surgery—and it went wrong. He came out of it in more pain than before. And since then, that pain had been a constant presence in his life.

“But today,” he said, “when I was up there in the show—when I went into hypnosis—the pain disappeared. Completely. Like, it was just gone.”

Then he looked me in the eye and asked, “Is that normal?”

I paused. “No,” I said, “I think it’s pretty safe to say that’s not normal.”

But then I added, “To be honest with you, I think that’s the wrong question.”

He blinked. “What do you mean?”

I said, “I think what you should be asking isn’t whether it’s normal, but what it means. You volunteered to be in a hypnosis show. You went into hypnosis. And your pain disappeared. That’s what happened. So I’ll ask you: What do you think that means?”

He paused. Really thought about it. Then said, “I don’t know. That’s why I came to ask you.”

“I get that,” I told him. “But here’s the thing—I don’t usually have people in my shows who’ve been through car accidents and botched back surgeries. So asking me if what you experienced is typical is kind of missing the point. Let’s go back to your direct experience: You’ve had pain for years. You went into hypnosis. And the pain stopped. What are the possibilities?”

He was quiet for a few seconds. Then said, slowly, “Hypnosis can take away pain.”

“Yes,” I said. “That’s something we already know. There’s a solid base of research supporting hypnosis as a tool for pain management—chronic and acute. I can show you studies. But let’s go deeper. What else might be going on?”

He thought again, then looked up with a mix of hesitation and curiosity. “Are you trying to tell me… the pain wasn’t real?”

“No,” I said. “Absolutely not. That’s a common misunderstanding. Pain is real. If you feel it, it’s real. But what we need to explore is: Where is it coming from?”

I explained, “I’m not a doctor. I’m not a psychotherapist. I don’t have clinical training. I’m not here to diagnose anything. But I am inviting you to ask: How could it be that something that’s caused you years of pain… just stopped during hypnosis? Could it be that not all of the pain is physical? Could part of it be coming from your mind? Or your spirit?”

Now, this is where some people start to push back. They hear “it’s in your mind” and think it means “you’re making it up.” That’s not what I’m saying at all.

I told him, “Our minds are powerful. They can generate pain from emotional trauma. From fear. From stress. Our suffering doesn’t just live in our muscles or bones—it can live in our perceptions. Our beliefs. Our history.”

He nodded slowly, processing.

I offered him a simple metaphor.

“You know what hives are, right?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“So how is it that someone can go from no hives to suddenly being covered in red, itchy welts—just from stress? There’s no external trigger. Just a thought, an emotion, a moment of overwhelm. And boom: hives. You can see them. Feel them. They’re real. And yet… where did they come from?”

“The mind,” he said.

“Exactly. So if your mind can create hives… why not pain?”

We talked a little more. We circled the question, the way two people sometimes do when they’re both standing at the edge of something profound but uncertain. And eventually, he asked the one question I knew was coming:

“So… what do I do about this?”

And this—this is where I set the boundary.

Because I’m an entertainer.

And as an entertainer, it’s not my job to tell people what they should do about their health. It’s not my job to diagnose or prescribe. But I do have a powerful opportunity in moments like this: to ask better questions. To open a door. To nudge someone into their own deeper curiosity.

So I said, “I don’t know. All I can do is ask you to really think about what happened. And if it seems like this experience has shown you—even just a glimmer of possibility—that some part of your pain may not be permanent or necessary… well, maybe that’s worth exploring. Maybe it’s worth talking to your doctor again. Or to a therapist or counselor.”

“If hypnosis gave you even a brief moment of relief, maybe it’s not about chasing that state, but about using it as a signal. A starting point. You don’t have to figure it out alone—but I’m not the one to guide you through it.”

I never heard from him again.

I don’t know what he did with that moment. I don’t know if he followed up with a doctor or a therapist. I hope he did. I really hope he did.

Because here’s what stuck with me: He hadn’t been given suggestions for pain relief during the show. We hadn’t done a demonstration around pain management. There wasn’t some secret script I followed. It was simply the act of entering hypnosis. The moment his brain shifted gears—when his conscious mind took a backseat, and the deeper mind had room to breathe—the pain stopped.

And that tells me something.

Not that hypnosis is magic. But that the stories we tell ourselves about our pain—our identity, our injury, our limits—can be so tightly woven into our waking consciousness that we forget they’re even stories at all.

Until, maybe, we get a break from them.

And maybe that’s where the healing begins.