05/09/2026
For 37 years I have sat across from patients in pain.
I understood what they were describing before they finished describing it. Not because of what I learned in school. Because of what I have lived.
I have never feared that movement would make things worse. My fear has always been the opposite — what if it doesn’t make it better?
Rest and immobility have been the primary perpetuating factor throughout my life — and in the lives of most patients I have treated. The body that does nothing all winter and then expects to perform at its best when spring gardening begins is setting itself up for exactly the outcome it was trying to avoid.
It’s like skipping all your winter training and then being surprised when the first warm weekend arrives and a 10-mile run with friends ends with plantar fasciitis. The body doesn’t forget neglect. And it doesn’t forgive it quickly either.
Movement is the medicine. Not because I read it somewhere. Because I have lived it for as long as I can remember.
As a kid I was highly active — the bicycle, the baseball, the trails up Cedar Mountain. Movement was just who I was. Unconsidered. Natural.
Then my injury happened. And the reason I had always moved became the first hurdle I had to clear just to earn the right to participate again. I put that reason into action. That action became access. Access became ability. Ability became competition — first against myself. Eventually, for the joy of it, against others.
52 years of that.
If you think I’m overstating — watch your dog. Watch your cat. They stretch without being asked. Without permission. Every time. Not because they read it somewhere. Because the body knows.
Movement is not optional.
It is essential for existence and performance. That’s not my opinion. That’s what every living thing demonstrates every day.
The back that locks up without warning. The morning stiffness that takes an hour to walk off. The quiet grief of a body that no longer does what it once did without effort or thought.

I have lived all of it. Privately. For all of my career without ever saying so.
What I carried in secret became the quiet engine of everything I offered in practice.
The motivation to understand. The determination to find a way through. The refusal to accept that a structural finding is the same thing as a life sentence.
But I have also learned something equally important over those 37 years.
My outcome is not a template.
What I did with my spine — the training, the conservative management, the decades of consistent load and movement — is not a prescription I hand to every patient who walks through the door.
It is a data point of one.
Extraordinary, documented, singular. It tells us what is possible. It does not tell us what is guaranteed.
Every patient is their own case. Their own variables. Their own capacity. Their own readiness.
My job is to meet them where they are. Not where I was. Not for sympathy. Not for spectacle.
For the patient sitting in a surgeon’s office right now being handed a verdict with no alternatives.
For the person who needs to know that one path existed — even if it was never studied.
That is why this story is worth telling.
Next week: what happened when I finally stopped carrying it alone.
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