Are We Broken?

I decided to take a rest (and maybe give readers a rest as well) from the more technical stuff and write something a bit more meditative today.  I've been thinking about the things about ourselves that we might view as "broken" or otherwise not in good working order, and how that might influence the ways we think.  In particular, I've been reflecting on a recent major injury that I'm still in the process of recovering from.

First, a quick point from physics. (Didn't you say you were gonna stay away from the technical stuff??  Why yes, intrepid reader.  Fear not, for I'm just being metaphorical.)

The Second Law of Thermodynamics describes entropy.  In simple (if not perfectly accurate) terms, this means that systems tend towards "disorder" over time.  In slightly more accurate terms, it is a tendency towards a reduction in energy that is available to do work, but that is less useful for this post, so I'll not go farther down that road right now. 

The point is: stuff decays.

Without maintenance, buildings collapse.  Pipes rust.  Roads crack, fires burn out, and pressure equalizes.  Given enough time, nature's overgrowth tends to crowd out the things that humans have scurried around to furiously to build -- and that applies not only to the physical objects that we have created, but also the ways we have shaped ourselves both outside and in.  We feel an ongoing struggle against time to hold onto our possessions, abilities, youth, relationships, and all manner of other things... and that battle seems to be a losing one.

In the fitness world, we likely encounter this phenomenon most frequently in the form of "entropy of the body."  Joints wear out.  Tissues break down.  Old injuries linger and almost seem to spread their influence a little farther each time they flare up.  And it's scary.

Perhaps it's scary because we're afraid of change.  That seems to be a pretty common fear for people, no?  Fear of the unknown, fear of moving into a new place or a new phase when we'd gotten comfortable in our previous one.  We often form our identity around our abilities -- including physical ones.  When these abilities diminish, it can feel as though we are actually losing a piece of ourselves.  For those of us who have grown used to a high level of achievement or who have enjoyed a reputation that is based on our ability to perform, losing this may even feel like death in a sense.

I've experienced this myself recently.  For those who don't know, I have been a martial artist for pretty much my entire adult life.  While I never reached the Olympic level in terms of my athleticism or sparring prowess, I did enjoy a level of flexibility, speed, coordination, etc. beyond what would be considered "normal" for a long time.  High kicks, jumps, fast spins, hard falls, rolls, and all other manner of physical tasks were just part of a normal day, and for years, they didn't cause much more than the occasional lump, minor strain, or patch of soreness that'd last a few days.  Nothing catastrophic happened.

Back when skinny TKD Geoff could hold kicks to pose for silly pictures

About 5 or 6 years ago, however, I noticed that the injuries started to mount.  Things began to accumulate in a way that seemed to slow me down more than before.  Recovery dragged a little longer, and it didn't always seem to be as complete as before.  Minor aches graduated to moderate ones.  What used to be mindless confidence started to give way to a subtle sense of unease and distrust in a body that used to just... DO things.  I stepped back from training a bit, and what initially was a valid bit of rest gave way to a cycle of quasi-justified detraining.  I became less conditioned, fell out of practice, and things then would often hurt even more.

Still, it was manageable.  I kept telling myself that "Well, you can always get it back if you REALLY need to.  It's not like you've had anything catastrophic happen yet."

And that was kind of right.  Eventually, a couple of years ago, I shrugged off a lot of the excuses and started getting more consistent with my training -- especially in judo.  I slipped back into a routine that used to be automatic so many years earlier.  I felt a sort of groove kick in.  I was still achier than I used to be, but I decided I'd be okay with that.  I told myself that pain didn't have to define me, and that I could tell the difference between simple discomfort and pain that is really a sign that something's wrong.  Before long, some of those pains started going away as well.  I was looking and feeling better than I had in years.  While I was still substantially heavier than my old competition weight (I used to compete in both judo and taekwondo at around 165-170 lbs, and at this point I was around 190 lbs), I felt that I'd "grown into" the weight and learned to handle it well.  Things were looking up!

And then I had a complete ACL rupture.

Yep.

Judo accident.  One too many rounds after one too many days of overzealous training, and my knee buckled worse than... something that buckles far too easily.  (Did you gather that I'm great with metaphors?)

What followed was a period of several months in which I tried to rehab as well as I could, suffered repeated existential crises, and then tried to go about my life while wondering how I would ever get the thing fixed.  Couple that with a pandemic that hit and kept me out of most significant martial arts training opportunities, and I began to wonder whether maybe I just needed to move on and stop doing all of this painful, dangerous stuff that I had held onto so stubbornly.  Would I ever have the speed I used to have?  Would I move with the grace (or at least strategic awkwardness) that I once enjoyed ever again?  Would I be able to engage in contact sports without excruciating pain or undue risk?  There were all kinds of questions going through my head.

As I finally got into surgery some 10 months after the injury, however, something changed.  The issues I was dealing with seemed to shift my perspective, and I found myself cheerful as can be as I was prepped to go under anesthesia.  I was eager to start this new step.  Something about the gravity of this situation -- a situation which saw me having my first orthopedic surgery of my life -- made me realize that so many of the problems I was moaning about were relatively minor.  I was about to get my knee put back together by a great surgeon with an awesome team to help me along the way.  I was evaluated as an excellent candidate for a full recovery, and there was no reason to think that that evaluation was wrong. 

Sure, I would practically be starting from square one as I began rehab... but that was okay.  I was surprisingly at peace with the process.  There was something fresh and exciting about the prospect of reteaching my body how to do some basic tasks and rebuild its ability to handle stresses that I never used to think twice about.  I'd get to slow down and really start appreciating everything that I was *still* able to do before the surgery and would be able to do again.  Each little milestone during my post-op physical therapy served as a celebration of the "normal" functions that are really incredible when you step back and think about it.

In the weeks following the surgery, I came to a jarring realization: while my knee had become messed up, that wasn't the actual problem.  The surgeon fixed that.  What was really broken was my outlook.  I was so fixated in recent years on recovering what was lost, on trying to slow that entropic decay of injury and age (with age as more a function of mileage than time, given that I'm only 34 as I write this), that I had lost sight of how many things I could still do and should be amazed by.  From those deft little hops onto and off of a curb, to being able to catch something that I just dropped even though my hands were full, to the way that I still had the best front roll of almost anyone I knew... I had plenty of reasons to be thankful for what my body could still do for me and how much more there was to explore.

My attitude was what was broken.  How my body seemed to function and feel was, at most, a symptom of this.

Now don't get me wrong.  I'm not delusional.  I know my "new" knee will probably never feel quite like my old one did.  I'll spare you the feel-good messages about mending a cracked vase with gold, as those aren't really on-brand for me, and someone else can say those things far better than I can.  I know that I'll always have aches and pains.  I know that I might not ever achieve quite the speed and flexibility that I used to take for granted.  There are still limitations I'll have to deal with and rough patches ahead. 

The thing is, I'm choosing to embrace those obstacles as I continue rebuilding myself physically *and* mentally.  Every day that I get up and appreciate my body for what it can do seems to be another day that it gives me back a little more of what it used to do.

Or maybe that's just my new perspective talking ;)

I'm not back to top fighting form, but at ~7 months post-op, this mediocre martial artist is more than ready to pull his best "Karate Elvis" pose and teach some basic kicks to people again.  And I'm loving every minute of it.

So there it is.  My little (or not-so-little) meditative reflection on physical brokenness and the mental break-i-fication (totally a word) that can often accompany it.  I don't know if there was much of a point to this or if it was helpful for anyone, but it felt worthwhile for me to spend over 1,500 words to say "Injuries aren't all in your head, but a lot of the problems you blame on injuries are."  So there you go.  Stay tuned for my upcoming 9-part webinar on brevity and what it can do for you.

As long as you don't allow yourself to feel broken, I don't think you really *are* broken.  Use that as you will, friends.

- G


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