The desert air in Saudi Arabia crackles, dry and immense. On the horizon, the intricate geometry of a future city gleams under construction lights. My work to improve public safety here demanded precision, foresight, a deep understanding of loads, stresses, and the elegant dance of physics that keeps structures standing. Back in my Hampden row home weeks later, sprawled awkwardly after a running shoe became wedged under a square of Baltimore sidewalk, I applied the same principles – not to steel and concrete, but to flesh and bone. My most recent injury: a spectacularly bruised thigh and knee, courtesy of friction, gravity and elegant stone park furniture in Puerto Rico. And no, I didn’t call a doctor.

This isn’t a manifesto against white coats or stethoscopes. My mother’s unnecessary death from a hospital-acquired infection, a tragedy shrouded in legislative darkness right here in Maryland, etched a profound respect for the *potential* dangers within the system, alongside its undeniable marvels. My brother’s life, cut short by diabetes, and my father’s participation in that landmark Hopkins study screaming the efficacy of diet and exercise – these are the tectonic plates shaping my landscape of health. I love Kaiser Permanente, appreciating their preventative bent, but am bound to United Healthcare until retirement.

When a bone snaps clean through, when the body whispers a warning I don’t understand, when fear has a tangible, clinical shape – that’s when I seek the system's expertise. My rebuilt shoulder, a monument to pandemic perseverance in a makeshift gym, stands as testament to both the system’s limitations *and* the body’s astonishing capacity when given the right conditions.

So, why the stoic solitude with this latest collection of aches and technicolor bruising? It boils down to **Health Ensurance** – not the actuarial tables and co-pays of my United Healthcare plan, but the active, daily cultivation of resilience *within* myself. It’s the antithesis of outsourcing my well-being.

Think of the SAFE cycle – Strength, Adaptation, Function, Expression – the bedrock rhythm of OG Parkour. This isn’t just about nailing a precision jump. It’s the micro-cycle humming constantly beneath the surface of living. It’s the meticulous attention paid to the fuel I put in my 61-year-old engine (no small feat resisting my neighborhood's six bakery cafes). It’s the deliberate, progressive strengthening – not just the big "airborne" muscles for flight, but the deep, stabilizing "grounded" muscles that anchor every landing. It’s the daily movement practice, the simple rolls, balances, and controlled falls that build coordination and instinct, layer by layer, like sedimentary rock forming a cliff face. This constant, mindful engagement *is* my primary health insurance. It builds a baseline of knowledge and capability, a **trust bond** between mind and body that whispers, *"You know this terrain. You’ve mapped it before."*

When the recent San Juan fall happened, that trust bond activated. The pain was a familiar dialect – the sharp protest of overstretched tendon, the deep throb of impacted muscle, the visual poetry of bruising evolving from angry purple to a healing lighter purple. My engineering mind kicked in: observe the data. Location? Intensity? Character (sharp, dull, throbbing)? Changes over hours, days? Swelling – localized or spreading? Mobility – where was it impeded? This wasn’t stoicism; it was active surveillance, a diagnostic process honed over decades of bumps, sprains, and the slow, deliberate rebuilding of that shoulder.

Then, the research. Not frantic Googling, but targeted dives into Research Gate and other reputable sources, understanding the typical healing timelines for soft tissue injuries, the warning signs of complications. I cross-referenced my "field data" against the scientific literature, just as I’d assess beam strength against engineering specs. Did anything scream "deviation from standard recovery protocol"? Did the pain pattern suggest something deeper, more sinister?

The answers were not always no, at least not immediately. This was the body’s ancient, efficient repair protocol unfolding: inflammation, repair, remodeling. But it needed time, observation though touch and massage, intelligent rest, gentle mobilization when ready – not an external intervention.

This is where modern society often stumbles. We’ve outsourced not just our healing, but our fundamental *understanding* of the machine we inhabit. We panic at a fever – nature’s furnace burning out infection. We reach instantly for pills to silence pain – the body’s critical alarm system. We’ve forgotten the basic teas, the compresses, the knowledge passed down through villages and generations that addressed 90% of life’s minor afflictions. We navigate by GPS satellites but can’t read the simple map of our own pulse or the meaning behind a specific ache. This dependence breeds fragility. It makes us fearful tenants in our own bodies, perpetually waiting for a professional landlord to fix the leaky faucet.

Does this mean ignoring a compound fracture? Pretending sepsis isn’t real? Of course not. That’s recklessness, the opposite of the mindful responsibility OG Parkour demands. My mother’s tragedy taught me the critical importance of discerning *when* the system is essential. It’s about **discernment**. It’s about building enough baseline knowledge, enough somatic literacy, to understand when the issue is within the body’s vast capacity to heal itself (given the right foundation), and when it genuinely requires the scalpel, the antibiotic, the specialist’s eye.

My "treatment"? Restorative sleep. Meticulous hydration. Nutrient-dense foods chosen to support inflammation reduction and tissue repair. Careful range-of-motion exercises – push to progress, remind the pathways -- but don't over do it. No Advil or other pain killers. Cold therapy (a rolled super cold Medalla Light can). Heat later, to encourage blood flow. And if necessary, injest the cold therapy – less a painkiller, more a ceremonial nod to simple pleasures amidst discomfort. The closest thing to a sacrament in my recovery chapel.

The deeper healing, however, came from the practice itself. Sitting with the discomfort, observing its ebb and flow without panic or aversion, was a profound meditation. It was an exercise in radical acceptance – not resignation, but clear-eyed acknowledgment: *"This is the current condition. How do I work with it?"* It reinforced the Buddhist truth of impermanence – the bruise bloomed, peaked, faded. The stiffness peaked, yielded, softened. Nothing static. Everything in flux. My job wasn’t to fight the river, but to navigate its currents skillfully, respecting its power while trusting my ability to stay afloat.

This is Health Ensurance: the daily investment in strength, knowledge, and mindful presence. It’s tending the internal ecosystem with the same care I’d give a fragile desert bloom or a complex engineering schematic. It’s understanding that while the modern healthcare system holds vital tools for acute crises and complex pathologies, my first line of defense, my most reliable healer, resides within the skin I’m in. It’s about reclaiming agency over this fundamental aspect of existence. To move freely, to leave the ground with trust, requires more than just supple muscles; it requires the deep-seated confidence that comes from knowing, truly knowing, the terrain of your own being. That knowledge, earned through mindful practice and embodied experience, is the ultimate premium. It ensures not just survival, but the vibrant, expressive vitality that makes the journey – bumps, bruises, and all – worth taking, right up until the very last leap.

Tags: health, healthcare, insurance