I found out last week that there’s something wonky with me at a cellular level, and I’ve never been more relieved.

📚 Story time…

Somewhere around middle school, I developed chronic back pain as the result of a tragic piano accident (also known as “I didn’t do shit for activities and have no idea how it happened”).

Since then, it’s been migrating around my body and getting worse with age, bundled with a bunch of other stuff like complete exhaustion, digestive nonsense, mental poppycock, and dumb crap like sensitivity to light and heat.

I’m 41, dude, and I’m falling apart. And I’ve never understood why the hell this is all happening 🥴

Until last week, when I saw a rheumatologist who asked me how far I could bend my pinky back.

The answer, by the way, is “call an exorcist” far.

Then he asked if I could flex my thumb forward into my forearm and do some other contortionist shit. And you bet your booty I can ✊✊

With my A-student clinical bendiness and a damning confluence of other symptoms, he could diagnose me with generalized hypermobility spectrum disorder.

The dots connected. The clouds parted and heavens opened. And “having a connective-tissue disorder” suddenly (and hopefully temporarily) became my entire personality.

There’s a strange comfort in understanding there’s a reason for what’s happening, and you’re not crazy for low-key wanting to die all the time.

The good news beyond this is that I don’t have RA or lupus or something else with life-threatening complications.

The less-good news is there’s no pop-and-swallow medication “cure” for HSD. So I get to go hard in PT, be vigilant about how I move, take NSAIDs, and, uh, get massages and acupuncture (okay!).

💪 But I’m in control of my story now. And that’s — to quote our geriatric lame-duck president — a big fuckin’ deal.

Because we do not like loose ends, we humans. We crave conflicts tied up neatly with a bow. We like when the hero wins, and we stan a happy ending (or, at the very least, seeing a path toward one).

My ability to envision a less-hobbled version of me started with a doctor who took the time to ask questions and look beyond the symptoms to find the heart of my problem. He showed me the steps I need to take, and now it’s up to me.

You know the drill with these anecdotes: Of-freakin’-course this ties back to our businesses.

👉 We can’t solve all our customers’ problems, but we can work to understand them. We can’t wave a wand and heal them, but we can remind them of how unstoppable they are and support them along the way. 👈

And remember: Our solutions may not lead to nirvana. Sometimes “a little better” is amazing. Meet your folks where they are and settle in where they need you.

P.S. The New York Times published an op-ed last week titled “Joy Is Not a Strategy” — utter rage-bait on behalf of the headline writers — about the Democratic National Convention’s theme and the need for meatier campaign promises and proof she’ll do a better job to ensure a win in November.

“We’re bringing joy back to America” may not be a strategy. But it’s one hell of an aspirational hook. I’m listening…

P.P.S. Can I read this one to you?