The Next Question

During my health coaching training at McMaster, I was coaching a woman who was struggling with mobility and pain from arthritis. She was worried about losing her independence and was finding it difficult to find the motivation to do the exercises her physiotherapist had prescribed. During one of our sessions, I asked her: “What would getting stronger allow you to do?”

Her answer surprised me. “I could flip my mattress,” she said.  It seemed like such an ordinary thing. But flipping her mattress was something she had always done herself, and continuing to do things like that was part of what independence meant to her. Suddenly, the exercises weren't just something she should be doing. Getting stronger was connected to something that mattered to her. I've thought about that answer many times since.

I wonder if sometimes, when we set health goals, we stop one question too soon. I want to lose 30 pounds, run five kilometres, get stronger, exercise three times a week - these can all be worthwhile goals. Numbers can help us set targets, track progress and see change. But I often think about what would achieving the goal make possible?

My 92-year-old mother swims in the ocean four or five times a day when she's at our family cottage. That's impressive in itself. But there's another part of the story: getting to the ocean requires climbing down a ladder from the wharf to the beach and climbing it again every time she comes back out. This past summer, like all the ones that came before, those swims were often what brought our family together during otherwise busy days. A cousin, sibling or grandchild would appear on Mom's deck and ask:

“Who wants to go for a swim?”

Without fail, Mom would eagerly answer, “Me!” Then came the routine we've been doing for decades. Down the ladder. The agonizing first few steps into the cold water. And Mom announcing, as she always does, “It's like velvet.” By the end of August, we had added another summer of swims to something our family has done together since childhood.

The strength she has preserved at 92 isn't really the outcome that matters. It's what that strength allows her to continue being part of.

It reminds me of buying our first house on Mountjoy in Toronto. I cared about the kitchen, the natural light, the backyard where I could garden and, very importantly, where we would put the Christmas tree. I don't remember caring much about the foundation until someone suggested we have it inspected. Of course, the foundation may have been the least exciting part of the house, but everything we imagined doing there depended on it.

I think health can be like that. We don't build health just so we can have health. We build health to support a life. We may measure our progress in pounds lost, kilometres travelled, weight lifted or any number of other ways. Those measures can be useful. But perhaps they don't tell us everything we're building along the way, because the real value of our health may not be found in what our bodies can do, but in what those abilities give us access to.

It’s the intangibles, like independence, participation, connection and the freedom to keep joining in with people, places and experiences that matter to us. Sometimes what we gain through our health goals may not look particularly remarkable from the outside, but those small changes can expand what is possible in our lives.

What can I do?

What can I participate in?

What has become easier?

What am I able to say yes to?

Our physical abilities can look remarkably ordinary when we measure them from the outside. But their meaning can be enormous when measured from inside a life. So when we think about changing our health, perhaps the most important question isn't only how much weight we might lose, how far we might run or how strong we might become.

What would this make possible in my life?