Still Climbing
Quiet reflections on the changes I see, mostly in regard to my family.
Most of what I write here is clinical. Studies, mechanisms, frameworks, protocols. I write that way because precision matters in medicine, and because I think you deserve the evidence behind the recommendations, not just the recommendations themselves.
I’m still climbing my second mountain. I can’t see the summit yet. But perhaps the point isn’t reaching the top — it’s carrying forward everything and everyone I’ve loved along the way.
But there is another kind of writing I’ve been doing quietly — pieces that don’t fit neatly into the longevity content, pieces that aren’t about VO2 max or grip strength or insulin sensitivity. They’re about what it actually feels like to live inside a life that is moving forward, whether you’re paying attention or not.
I’m in my early sixties. My children are grown or nearly there. My parents are still alive, which I hold carefully, because I know that too will change. I feel more purposeful than I did a decade ago, and more aware of time than I ever have been. I write about longevity professionally. I live it personally, in all the ways that have nothing to do with biomarkers.
David Brooks writes about the Second Mountain — the shift that happens when the first mountain of building and proving gives way to something quieter and more deliberate. I’ve felt that shift in my own life. I can’t unsee it. And some of what I’m trying to figure out, I think better on the page.
Still Climbing is where those pieces will live. It won’t be frequent. It won’t be scheduled. It will appear when something happens that feels worth writing down — a day at the beach, a morning in the snow, a trip that turns out to carry more weight than you expected.
If that’s not what you come here for, that’s completely fine — the clinical content isn’t going anywhere, and you can read only that if you prefer. But if you’ve ever wondered what the person behind the longevity posts is actually thinking about at the end of the day, this is the honest answer.
Three pieces already exist. I’ll link them below. More will follow when they’re ready.
At Jones Beach, Between the Tides
On a day that was supposed to be simple, and wasn’t.
The Last Snowman
On parenting, endings, and what you only understand afterward.
The Narrowing Window
On a trip to Florida, borrowed time, and the second mountain.
I’m still climbing. I can’t see the summit yet. But perhaps the point isn’t reaching the top — it’s carrying forward everything and everyone I’ve loved along the way.