At the age of 23, Mel Keerie found herself on a fast-paced journey through life.

She was not only married but had also purchased her second home and was deeply invested in her career in youth mental health, working with clients who utilized sign language to communicate.

Her life was packed with activity and purpose. Ambitious and in great shape, Mel thrived in a constant state of action.

Despite her energetic lifestyle, Mel didn’t engage in alternative therapies. Her sense of wellness was grounded in years of physical engagement, from childhood dance to adult boxing and frequent gym workouts.

In an effort to expand her skill set, she decided to take a course in massage therapy, aiming to do remedial work as a supplementary career. It was a practical decision, offering another avenue to help others while boosting her income.

Then, on an otherwise typical day, everything took a dramatic turn.

Mel was driving a client home when a motorist misread the lights.

The other driver was a tired young mum who had barely slept when she turned right at an intersection thinking it was a green signal. Her car steered straight into Mel’s.

It was a head-on collision that made Mel’s car spin several times before it landed on a grassy verge on the other side of the road.

Mel was trapped in the driver’s seat and needed rescuing by the fire brigade.

In the moment, she remembers feeling ‘fine’ – she had a client in the back and was more concerned about their well-being – but in hindsight, that was adrenaline doing what adrenaline does.

In the hours that followed, she developed significant neck pain and bruising across her chest and shoulder from the airbag and seatbelt.

Imaging later showed her cervical spine had lost its natural curve, leaving the muscles around her neck locked into a state of constant tension.

‘It was so stiff,’ she says. ‘So intense.’

What initially looked like whiplash became something far more persistent.

It was the beginning of a long, invisible injury – the kind that doesn’t look dramatic to other people, but quietly dismantles your life.

In the weeks and months that followed, Mel’s world got smaller.

She couldn’t box. She couldn’t exercise. She couldn’t turn her head properly. Sitting upright became difficult.

She would manage a few hours at work, then come home and lie down because it was the only position that gave her neck any rest.

‘I’d go to work for, I think, three hours,’ she says. ‘I couldn’t sit upright.’

Sleep was ‘hit and miss’. Pain made it hard to drift off, and when she did sleep, she’d jolt awake, her neck screaming, her nervous system still switched on.

Two mortgages meant she kept pushing through, even when her body was saying no.

Friendships faded. Social plans became complicated. Her marriage didn’t survive it.

‘There were so many things I couldn’t do,’ she says.

‘And I didn’t have something noticeable – like a scratch or a cast – to remind people that I was badly internally injured.’

That’s one of the cruellest parts of chronic pain: it happens inside you, but the world still expects you to perform like nothing has changed.

Mel was eventually diagnosed with chronic regional pain syndrome (CRPS), which doctors said was triggered by severe whiplash. 

CRPS is a complex, poorly understood condition in which the nervous system malfunctions, causing severe, persistent pain that is often disproportionate to the original injury.

In other words, Mel’s pain wasn’t getting any better – but no one could tell her why. 

Because Mel was driving a client at the time of the crash, she was funnelled into the Workers Compensation system.

That meant regular appointments with a workers compensation doctor, who would make an ongoing inventory of her professional limitations.

Once a month, she’d sit down and be asked what she couldn’t do. ‘It was the most depressing thing,’ she says.

‘I’m not one to think about all the things I can’t do. I’m very ambitious, moving forward. But he’d ask, “So what can’t you do?” and I’d have to sit and think about it.’

Then came the prognosis: ‘You’re going to be on pain medication for the rest of your life.’

Mel remembers the shock of it. Not just the sentence, but the way it was delivered, like it was obvious, like there was nothing else to discuss.

He offered a prescription for opioid painkillers. They are strong, addictive and usually prescribed as a last resort when other options have failed.

Mel didn’t take it. Not because she thinks medication is wrong, but because she had seen what dependency looked like up close.

Working with children and families in mental health, she had seen parents become reliant on prescription drugs. She knew she didn’t want to walk that path.

‘I was like, “No, there has to be more than this.”‘

One of the ironies of Mel’s crash is that she was already moving into alternative health at the time by learning massage therapy. After her accident, this treatment became less of a side hustle and more of a survival tool.

Her studies quickly became her main focus, opening her to a world markedly different from what she’d expected. She was exposed to different practitioners, and a very different way of thinking about pain, stress and the body.

For her, the impact was practical at first. Massage helped. It gave her relief. It created space in her muscles. It softened the daily grind of pain. But it never lasted.

She’d hop off the table after an hour and feel better, then the next day the pain would return. Her muscles would lock again, her nervous system would activate, and she would be right where she started.

Mel says the only reason it helped as much as it did was because she had unusual access: between training and extra treatments, she was getting bodywork multiple times a week.

‘For someone else, just an average person, they couldn’t afford that,’ she says, ‘but for me, it was a massive game-changer.’

Over time, Mel built a drug-free toolkit to manage her pain.

At the centre was meditation. While this didn’t take her pain away, it stopped her mind adding a second layer of suffering.

She describes how chronic pain can create a constant mental soundtrack. ‘I can’t be a good wife. I can’t do my job properly. I can’t do this.’

The pain is physical, but the mind piles on fear, grief and self-blame. Meditation, she says, helped her separate those things.

‘The physical body is in discomfort, but the mind doesn’t have to go there as well.’

It helped her cope. It helped her sleep sometimes. It helped her function. But she still lived with flare-ups and baseline muscle tightness for years. And then, 12 years after the accident, something shifted.

Mel had been aware of sound work for years. She’d collaborated with someone doing ‘Yin yoga and sound baths’ – a relaxing practice combining slow yoga poses with immersive vibrational sound therapy – but it wasn’t really her thing.

Then, a mentor suggested something different: a one-on-one sound therapy session. Mel trusted her, so she went along without expectations.

The session was held in a treatment room. Mel lay on a table, put on an eye mask and the practitioner used Tibetan bowls, playing specific tones and frequencies.

Mel remembers the sensation as familiar, like her body recognised something her mind didn’t.

She wouldn’t describe it as ‘relaxing’ in the way people talk about massages or baths. She felt internal sensations responding. Her body releasing. Afterwards, she felt calm.

Then the next day, she woke up and it felt like the accident had happened again. Not exactly physical pain, but heat and discomfort. The flare was so intense and recognisable that it frightened her.

But Mel didn’t give up. She wondered if the treatment that had stirred up her old pain might also be the key to resolving it. So she booked a second sound therapy session.

After the second session, Mel stood up and felt… nothing. There was no pain.

She didn’t want to jinx it. She went home and waited a day, half expecting the discomfort to return. But the next morning, the baseline pain she had lived with for more than a decade was still absent.

‘For the first time in 12 years, my nervous system wasn’t on high alert,’ she says. ‘The constant hum of pain and fatigue was gone.’

While she still experiences occasional tightness from physical exertion, the chronic pain linked to the accident has not returned. And for someone who had built a whole life around managing pain, the absence of it was almost disorienting.

‘It was like… I don’t even know what to do with myself,’ she says. ‘I can now move myself out of discomfort. I’ve got all the tools.’

What research says about sound and pain

Mel’s experience is powerful, but it’s also important to be clear where sound-based interventions sit on the spectrum of scientific evidence.

Most of the stronger research in this area is on music interventions more broadly, which have been shown to reduce pain levels across many studies and settings.

There’s also emerging research into more specialised sound-based approaches, like vibroacoustic therapy, being studied in chronic pain populations.

And while singing bowl and sound interventions are increasingly being explored clinically, some of the clearest published benefits so far are tied to anxiety and stress reduction, not chronic pain.

What that means in plain terms is this: sound therapy is not a magic bullet, and it shouldn’t be presented that way. But there is a growing interest in how sound, frequency and vibration-based treatments may support the nervous system and reduce distress, especially as an adjunct to other treatments.

Mel is careful about that distinction. She doesn’t frame sound therapy as ‘anti-medicine’, rather as the missing piece that helped when all other options plateaued.

Mel now works in the field herself, and is very specific about the difference between sound baths – an immersive experience that uses therapeutic sound waves to promote relaxation, healing and mindfulness – and what she calls sound therapy.

Sound baths are group sessions that focus on relaxation and atmosphere, and the practitioner may not be working with personalised assessment.

Sound therapy, she says, is more targeted and individualised, with the practitioner choosing specific frequencies and approaches based on what the client is presenting with.

Whether someone agrees with all the language or not, the practical point matters: if you’re seeking sound-based support for trauma or chronic pain, the training, approach and safety awareness of the practitioner matters.

Who should and shouldn’t try sound therapy

Sound-based therapies are often marketed as ‘safe for everyone’, but the reality is more nuanced, especially when you’re talking about trauma, nervous system dysregulation and chronic illness.

Sound therapy may be worth considering if you:

• have chronic pain or persistent muscle tension and want something to complement medical care
• notice that stress and anxiety worsen your symptoms
• want a non-verbal modality that doesn’t rely on ‘talking it out’
• are curious about the practitioner but have realistic expectations

It’s smart to be cautious, or get medical advice first, if you:

• have a history of seizures, significant sound sensitivity, severe tinnitus or conditions where intense sound/vibration could aggravate symptoms
• are currently in acute psychological distress, experiencing psychosis/mania, or have a trauma history that can lead to dissociation (because any body-based modality can bring up unexpected responses)
• are recovering from a recent concussion, acute injury or surgery and are unsure what your body can tolerate
• have a medical device or condition where vibration or prolonged sound exposure may be an issue and you’ve been advised to avoid it (ask your treating clinician)

And regardless of who you are, a red flag is any practitioner who tells you to stop medication, stop medical care, or claims sound therapy can ‘treat’ serious diseases with guaranteed results.

Where Mel is now

Today, Mel is the director of SALA Wellness in Newcastle, New South Wales, where she works across corporate wellness and individual support, offering services including massage, yoga, meditation and sound therapy.

Her focus is on working with people who have their pain dismissed, or are told their symptoms are all in their head, or that there is only one treatment option.

Mel knows what that feels like.

And after more than a decade living with pain, she’s built a life around helping other people feel safer in their bodies.