Fearfully and Wonderfully Made

If this post seems random, it probably means you have not been among the several dozen food-related conversations that I’ve had these past few weeks. Without sharing specifics, it’s very clear that a lot of people are struggling more than usual right now, mid-pandemic. Which makes all kinds of psychological sense — but has also left me with a lingering, unsettling sadness that I haven’t known how to address.

I’ve certainly run my own gauntlet as far as nutrition (and everything operates on a pendulum, for sure) — but at the moment, I’m in possibly the healthiest physical and mental place that I’ve ever been. And in a way, that makes it harder to watch other people struggle — because I know it doesn’t have to be that way, but I also know it’s their path to walk; I can’t fix it for them. Everyone’s sticking points are so different — and anyway, what in the world could I possibly say that hasn’t already been said, and better said, by people much more qualified?

In a way, it feels like what I said a couple of weeks ago about the pandemic: why me? Why am I okay? Why do I get to be in a good place? What makes me one of the lucky ones right now?

And then this hit me yesterday. And I confess I’ve been trying for hours to fit it into the Instagram character limit, and I just can’t, so I stopped trying. My writing is always more for me than for anyone else, and I needed to say it this way, with this number of words. If that means the readership is 50% lower, then so be it.

The TL;DR is not ‘advice’. It’s simply the observation that when we truly understand something, we’re more compassionate toward it.

In talking with a patient yesterday, I half-jokingly offered one of my standard lines, “Really, it’s amazing that the human body works correctly as often as it does, given the number of things that can go wrong with it!” I’ve probably used that line hundreds of times in the past, but on this occasion — probably because of all the nutritional ruminations — I ‘heard myself’ in a different way.

It’s no secret that a standard Western medical education often doesn’t do a great job addressing the particulars of nutrition. (I feel strongly that the letters behind my name do not qualify me to counsel anyone else on how they should be eating.) But yesterday I realized there’s something my medical education did provide that ultimately works to the same end: the sense of genuine wonder at the functions of this body I inhabit.

I’m not talking about athletic capability per se. I’m talking about seamless nutrient absorption and muscle repair. Millions upon millions of quiet, consistent heartbeats. The effortless exchange of oxygen at the deepst levels of the lungs. The silent symphony of hormones that allows for sleep and restoration. The instinctive brain chemistry that prompts the desire for human connection.

All of these astounding, invisible things are happening inside every single one of us, every second of every day. When you think about it — really, truly think about it — it’s hard not to be a little awed.

And I repeat — when we UNDERSTAND something, we are kinder and more accepting of it.

In my view, my body and I are a team. And, just like in sports or the military or your old Dungeons & Dragons league — it feels fulfilling and natural to support your team.

With nourishment. “Hey, Body, you worked really hard just now, so those muscles are breaking themselves down. Let’s feed you lots of carbs and protein so we can build them back up even stronger.”

With 2 AM compassion. “I understand that cortisol has you awake right now because I didn’t feed you enough yesterday. I’m sorry. I’ll make a better plan today.”

With 9 PM respect. “Yo, Body, you did some phenomenal work this morning. Here, let’s make sure we get in bed on time to release all the growth hormone we can for recovery.”

With experience. “OK, Brain, you’re feeling overly negative today because this is the point in the month when estrogen levels tank. You’re allowed to feel this, but that doesn’t make it true. You’ll feel better in a couple of days.”

With perspective. “This ‘untracked’ dinner out with your friends is a rare treat that does not merit any guilt. It’s emotionally fulfilling, gives your metabolism a nice challenge, prevents feelings of deprivation, and serves as a little extra fuel for the next heavy leg day. And you know by now that if you’re truly maintaining at an appropriate calorie level, you won’t even want to go ham.”

With recognition. “Body, I know I’m asking a lot of you right now, and I’m sorry. But we have been through worse, and I promise to give you enough rest and support to help you get back to baseline once we’re done here.”

I’m trying to be careful not to ‘advise’ in this post. I cannot fix anybody else’s relationship with food or with their body. But if I can potentially be of any kind of help by presenting myself as an example, well — the above is just about verbatim what goes on inside my head (and sometimes out loud) on a daily basis.

In short, PA school didn’t ‘teach me nutrition’; athletics did. But learning to be a caretaker of patients gave me a more granular understanding of how I work on the inside — thereby teaching me how to best care for myself. And it presented me with the sobering number of potential possibilities for physical or chemical errors — thereby reinforcing the fact that this strong healthy body with its fully functioning systems is a miraculous gift, worthy of my respect.

I’m a better athlete because I’m a PA, and I’m a better PA because I’m an athlete.

To be clear: I’m not saying everyone needs a medical education. I’m saying that we’re all basically just toddlers who want to know WHY. That our frustration and indecision often stem from confusion or misinformation. That there isn’t usually one ‘right’ way to do things — but that we generally make more confident decisions when we understand the broader concepts at play.

And that we ultimately feel more ownership of our bodies — not less — when we learn to recognize and respond to what they’re telling us.