Fix Your Glutes. Fix Your Life.

Two years is approximately how long it takes to become reasonably fluent in a foreign language, earn an associate’s degree, and impregnate an African elephant. This is also the amount of time I’ve spent pretending I can walk lately.

My problems started in the winter of 2023. That’s when bad weather and bouts of depression made me sign up for a half marathon. I wasn’t an athlete. Up until this point, my athletic ability could most kindly be described as “unrealized” or “ambitious.” But so many friends, writers, and LinkedIn influencers were promoting running as an all-around sport. spiritual reprieve. Like a chess piece or a kangaroo, I don’t have the biological ability to backpedal. So when I decided to become a runner, I immediately splurged on all the neon gear I needed and failed my training program. On race day, my overconfidence drove me through 13 icy miles. victory! Exercise endorphin nirvana!

It wasn’t until the adrenaline wore off that I realized I had broken my shin bone.

“Didn’t you notice?” the orthopedic surgeon asked. The next day, the orthopedic surgeon hit my tibia with a small hammer, causing my knee to spasm and barely avoid it. I explained that I just felt uncomfortable. “But why did you keep going when it started hurting?” my partner asked over the next few weeks as I helped me hobble from my bed to the fridge. (That was a rhetorical question; living with me gave him a front row seat to my stubbornness.) The orthopedic surgeon recommended bed rest, but I decided against it. I almost ignored it.

I thought the fracture would heal. That’s what the bones did. And so it happened. But one day, a few months later, I sprinted toward the bus. other The legs curl neatly inward and fall over. Next came 18 months of weird sprains, whack-a-mole tendonitis, and repeated Pangea bruises.

So finally, swallow your pride and make an appointment with your physical therapist. My PT, with the patience of a saint, told me that my shin bones were in great shape. Probably even stronger than before the break. However, I was still troubled by the misalignment of my entire skeleton.

PT declared that the root of all this was my “weak posterior strand.” Actually, this was a polite way of saying, “If you don’t have enough butt muscles, your life will be ruined.”