Turning 60: A Reflection on Adaptation, Not Decline

This story begins in the shower. About two months ago, and just after my 60th birthday, while washing I noticed a soft egg-shaped lump pushing out of my right groin. I've seen enough of these in practice to know I had an inguinal hernia.

Given the long history of orthopedic adventures I've had the opportunity of experiencing over the years, this should be no big deal — except that it was already beginning to be a problem, not only while treating all of you but also in my exercises. Both my patients and my cycling buddies were amused when I had to lie on the ground and push my hernia back in to continue to work or ride.

In one sense, a hernia is simply a defect in the fascia of the abdominal wall where tissue pushes through where it should not. A routine surgery would repair the defect with a mesh, and life moves on. Except, as I've learned so many times, living in our bodies is never quite so simple.

What surprised me most was not the surgery, which was routine and successful. What surprised me was how a relatively small defect in one area affected the rest of me — especially, and no surprise, my back. Two ruptured discs, severe stenosis and significant arthritic changes in my lumbar spine had me vulnerable.

I treat and talk daily about the integration and connectivity of our bodies. Knowing that, I strangely, albeit hesitantly, welcomed another opportunity to experience it in myself. Each time I experience an injury, stress or tension in my body, I learn.

The connective tissues of the abdomen, pelvis, hips and spine form a continuous network that transmits forces, provides stability and coordinates our movements. They help us feel a sense of wholeness and wellbeing that allows us to move with coordination and grace. I was feeling very little of this as I dealt with the hernia and subsequently recovered from the surgery. The surgery was successful, and although I resumed work immediately, my back was very irritated — not because it was injured. I didn't rupture another disc or sprain my back — it was just that the relationship between the fascial tissues had been changed.

I was humbled yet again.

I understand physiology, I understand healing, I understand timelines and I understand acceptance, but sometimes understanding is not quite enough.

I started to wonder if this was just what sixty felt like. I started to wonder if all the stress and time on my spine was finally catching up to me. Getting out of bed with a stiff and sore back, struggling to put on my underwear, sharp twinges as I leaned over my patients, hesitating to bend down to pick up frequently dropped objects. This was not grace.

I had to remind myself over and over again that this was an opportunity.

When we are younger, we often experience our bodies through performance: How fast can I run? How much can I lift? How quickly can I recover? Performance still matters to me, but turning 60 and recovering from this hernia have brought me back to a core philosophy I have been cultivating in recent years.

It can be summarized in a simple mantra:

Pay attention. Do one thing at a time, don't rush and leave no trace — except kindness.

It sounds straightforward in practice, but I have found it remarkably difficult.

This is now my practice.

I find myself rushing through life, through workouts, through conversations, through transitions, through ordinary movements that will never come again. Our world seems to reward speed, productivity and efficiency. Yet healing and recognizing that I am entering the last third of my life is forcing me to slow down.

One of the unexpected lessons of this recovery is how often I notice I have been rushing through life. My body (our bodies) remains wonderfully indifferent to our demands.

Collagen forms at its own pace. Fascia remodels and adapts at its own pace; strength and coordination return at their own pace. Knowing this, I am reminded that the only thing I can control is my attention.

So again, my practice is to:

• Pay attention: to my movements, to my breath, to my words, to my actions, to the world.
• Do one thing at a time: this is easier said than done.
• Don't rush; I fail repeatedly, but through practice I notice that I am no less efficient — in fact, maybe more, paradoxically.
• Leave no trace — except kindness.

None of this is dramatic — in fact, it is mostly invisible — but it is my practice.

Turning 60 has not made me feel old (my daughter Callie reassured me of that yesterday on Father's Day), but it has made me recognize that time is finite. That our bodies change. That recovery takes longer. That resilience becomes precious.

As I continue to recover from surgery and rebuild my back, I am aware that this is not a story of decline but a story of adaptation, resilience, gratitude, wisdom and attention.

If there is a lesson I hope to take forward and share with you, it is that we cannot stop time, or even slow time; we cannot prevent injury and we cannot guarantee perfect health. But we can learn to inhabit our bodies and our lives more fully. We can pay attention. We can stop rushing. And in doing so, we may discover we can live more deeply.

For now, that is enough, and that is my practice. I invite you to join me.