A Traveler’s Guide to Flying With Chronic Hip and Back Pain
It was 2023, and I had just turned 30 when my back gave out inside New York City’s JFK International Airport. One minute, I was double-checking our gate number, pointing my now-spouse in the direction of the bathroom, and strolling through terminals, and the next, I was crouched against a wall nearby, on the verge of tears. We were traveling to Hawaiʻi, where I was born and raised and my immediate family lives, for the first time since the COVID-19 lockdowns. Instead of celebrating our long-awaited reunion, I was crumpled up in Terminal 5, each shift shooting pain down my spine.
I’d lived with chronic pelvic and back pain for years. It started as cramps, pressure, and heavy periods in my teenage years. Over time, it swelled into endometriosis, a more noticeable and potentially problematic condition. This pain, however, felt unfamiliar. Sharp, radiating, and sudden, it caught me off guard. It turns out that years of bad posture in conjunction with improper core usage during exercise and the inflammation I get during menstruation were the root causes. With my spouse’s tender guidance, I shuffled to my aisle seat, where I stood every few hours to stretch. I spent most of my time in Hawaiʻi in motion, walking, stretching, swimming, and even hiking. By the time we flew home, I felt fine. My body cooperated, and I thought perhaps the flare-up was a one-time event.
Photo: Gorodenkoff/Shutterstock
Two weeks later, I threw out my back again carrying our dog to bed. I screeched, almost passing out from the pain. All I could do was sit upright, breathe into the sharpness, and remind myself it wouldn’t last forever. I felt lucky to be home with time and space to recover.
I went to a physical therapist, who upon further evaluation, scolded me for not coming in earlier, and told me I would have to take better care of my body, especially while traveling. I’d have to stop doing activities I loved, like boxing or wandering around a new city, until I could better stabilize my body and core. “It’s only downhill from here,” my PT warned me, relaying that she, too, had her back go out at 30. She told me I couldn’t hunch over for long stretches of time, and told me it was essential to wiggle and stretch in frequent breaks during my work days.
Traveling with chronic pain can be exhausting. Sometimes, I’ll spend extra money on a better seat so that my back doesn’t pay for it later. But over the years, I’ve developed a routine that’s helped me survive. I don’t travel hoping to be pain free, but so I can live a full life, even when my pain is unpredictable. That NYC breakdown taught me that traveling with chronic pain requires a different playbook. Here’s what I’ve learned works for traveling with chronic back and hip or pelvic pain.
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I never board a plane without my medical bag. It lives in my carry-on like a well-traveled companion. I’ve learned not to rely on airport or hotel gift stores to carry what I need. I’ll pack for a potential flare-up, even if I feel fine when I leave. I carry all my meds from home, including over-the-counter remedies like allergy meds, pain relievers, and anti-nausea tablets. It isn’t worth the inflated prices or stress of tracking down your favorite brands in a new city — or even worse, during a layover.
My kit includes a portable combination TENS/heating unit, a travel-sized heating pad, and my favorite pain creams. Sometimes, I travel with medications that require refrigeration, and TSA allows gel and ice packs for medical use (though you might need to tell your airline ahead of time). For Americans, the Air Carrier Access Act establishes travel rights for passengers with medical needs, and airlines must provide accommodations at no extra charge. However, some may require advance notice for medical equipment, so always check before you get to the airport.
While my kit might look excessive to someone who’s never had to plan for a pain spike in the middle of a seven-hour flight, it’s essential for self-preservation. Packing what I need ahead of time means I’m less likely to spend the first two days of my trip in bed, attempting to recover from the flight.
Photo: Vershinin89/Shutterstock
The airport might have runways, but those are only for planes. Despite what you see on TikTok and Instagram, airport outfits do not need to be haute couture, and I’ve stopped pretending that people care about what I wear. They’re probably not paying attention when they’re too stressed out missing their connections. When I travel, I prioritize my body, which means loose-fitting pants in comfortable fabrics, soft layers, and compression socks with supportive shoes that I can slip off easily. I bring a hoodie big and plush enough to double as a pillow. I care less about looking put-together, and more about surviving a long-haul flight in a plane designed by companies that continue to shrink their seats.
My chronic pain caused me to create workarounds to stifling, inaccessible travel conditions. If I wear pants that are too tight and the waistband digs into my lower abdomen, or if my shirt twists along the edge of my shoulder blade, it triggers a slow boil of discomfort that builds throughout the flight. I try to dress to prevent the pain before it festers. What may appear as unkempt, mismatched layers to other travelers is strategic dressing.
Photo: Alex Ost/Shutterstock
It may seem like a waste to use a day of your trip for rest and recovery, but I always do. I try to build in at least eight to 12 hours on the other side of a flight to recalibrate. If I land at noon, I won’t make dinner plans, opting to order delivery or eat something light on a whim. If I arrive on a weekend, I’ll block out the day after I get back for myself. I’ve had to learn the hard way that air travel includes not just the actual flights, but also the waiting, endless walking through terminals, and hunching over to squeeze past passengers. There’s a lot of compression and pain during a travel day. And when you live with chronic pain, it all catches up with you.
Embrace the aisle seat (and the small bit of extra space it provides). Photo: Darya Komarova/Shutterstock
Research from organizations such as the Harvard School of Public Health shows that being sedentary over long periods of time increases the risks of conditions ranging from leg swelling to overall lower life expectancies. I’ve noticed that staying still for hours on end is one of the worst things I can do for my back and pelvis. If I’m stuck in a middle or window seat, I’m more hesitant to move, as I don’t want to bother strangers or interrupt the peace. But my body usually pays for it later.
So I’ve learned to skip the ever-popular window seat and sit on the aisle, which provides critical access. I can stand, shift, stretch or pace without climbing over someone else’s lap mid-movie. I’ve been bumped by beverage carts and elbowed more times than I care to admit, but the aisle seat helps me avoid full-blown flare-ups because I can get out of my seat when my body needs it. If you’re someone who lives with chronic pain, movement in moderation serves as medicine.
Bring your own pillow and use the free airline one for lumbar support. Photo; First Class Photography/Shutterstock
Airplane seats were not designed with chronic pain in mind. These days, they don’t even comfortably accommodate average-sized bodies, let alone larger travelers or those with more nuanced issues like nerve pain, joint issues or pelvic floor tension. I’ve learned to work with what I was given, even if that means repurposing it completely. That flimsy pillow they toss on your seat? I don’t use it for my neck, but instead, fold it in half to wedge against my lower back as a makeshift lumbar cushion. I also never recline, even on long-haul flights. Over time, sitting in a reclined position can put more pressure on your pelvis, making it less comfortable over time.
The tray table acts as a stabilizer to rest my arms on when I need to take pressure off my hips or back. If I haven’t traveled with a foot hammock or a pad to sit on, I’ll use my under-seat bag (normally a tote filled with essential travel items) as a footrest, helping me steady myself. Part of it is creative improvisation. I adapted. I found angles, props and tweaks to keep my body from shutting down. While these don’t eliminate pain, they make travel more tolerable.
Photo: Matador Network
If you know you need assistance at an airport, let your airport know ahead of time. You can either call your airline after booking to ask for medical accommodations, or some airlines will have a box to click to indicate you have a disability while booking. You can also request assistance from certain airports through your airline, and they will assign someone to assist you while moving around. These accommodations can include wheelchairs, as well as golf-cart-style transportation, should those airports have access to them.
If you want to walk around ahead of time, I suggest a roller carry-on that’s sturdy enough to sit on if the airports are too crowded. It doubles as a seat and your luggage. Getting a roller bag with four independently spinning wheels also helps with controlling it, and takes weight off your back. If you do want to travel without a carry-on, it’s best to have a backpack with a padded hip belt. A recent 2022 study showed that weight belts help distribute the weight of your backpack across your torso and legs, greatly eliminating pressure on your shoulders and upper back. The researchers also recommended that people travel with no more than 40 percent of a person’s body mass in their backpack.
I also recommend stretching before your flight and walking as much as you can before a long-haul flight, as trying to stretch on a plane can fee quite cramped and limited.
Photo: TY Lim/Shutterstock
There’s no such thing as a perfect travel day with chronic pain. Some days are smooth, while others leave me sore and half-limping into baggage claim. I’ve stopped measuring success by how little I hurt and instead ask myself: Did I give my body what it needed to make it through to my accommodation? Traveling while chronically ill means accepting that discomfort comes along for the ride, while simultaneously challenging myself to manage it enough that it doesn’t steal my entire experience. Though travel takes extra planning and care, I’m grateful that I’ve built systems that help my body go where my spirit yearns to be.
I didn’t think I’d make it through that flight to Hawaii at 30, when my back gave out at JFK. That moment taught me what I needed: structure, slowness, and softness. These days, I board with what I need and trust the rest will follow. My body still protests, but I know how to respond. That’s how I land: making space for the hurt and everything that comes with it. 
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