When Movement’s Magic Turns Into Daily Negotiation
I miss running without thinking about running.
Twenty years ago, movement was unconscious. My legs carried me without negotiation. Without planning. Without permission. I wanted to run, so I ran. Simple.
Stairs appeared without strategy. I climbed them. Didn’t count them. Didn’t worry about my knees. Didn’t grip the railing. Just climbed.
Sleep came without engineering the perfect position for my back. I fell into bed. Slept. Woke up fine. No strategy required.
Now? Now each movement requires planning.
Getting out of bed becomes a calculated sequence. Roll to the side first. Use arms to push up. Swing legs to floor. Stand slowly. Wait for balance. Then walk.
Can’t just jump out of bed anymore. The body protests. The back complains. The knees need warning.
Picking up dropped keys demands assessment of my knee’s current mood. Is it a good knee day? Can I squat? Or do I need to bend differently? Use furniture for support? Ask someone else to pick them up?
The body that once responded instantly now requires consultation. Negotiation. Careful communication about what’s possible today.
I remember soccer games in my twenties. Sprinting for hours without consequence. Running until the game ended, not until my body gave out. Because my body never gave out. It just kept going.
The legs that carried me were invisible servants. Faithful. Endless. Asking nothing but food and rest. Never complaining. Never refusing. Never negotiating terms.
I never thanked them for their service. Never appreciated what they did. Never realized that faithful service was temporary magic, not permanent reality.
Youth operates in the physics of infinite energy. You burn calories you didn’t count. Eat whatever you want. Stay up all night. Sleep four hours. Wake up fine.
You heal injuries you didn’t notice. Small cuts. Bruises. Muscle strains. They appear and disappear without you paying attention. The body fixing itself in the background while you live your life.
You recover from exhaustion overnight. Tired today? Sleep tonight. Fine tomorrow. Simple mathematics. Reliable results.
The body functions like magic because you don’t yet understand it’s machinery. You think it will always work this way. Always heal this fast. Always respond this quickly. Always be there without complaint.
Middle age reveals the mechanical truth.
Joints have maintenance schedules. Lubrication requirements. Rest periods. They’re not magic. They’re engineering. And engineering needs upkeep.
Muscles require warm-up periods. Can’t just start sprinting. Need stretching first. Need gradual increase in intensity. Need preparation for demands you’re about to make.
Flexibility becomes currency you spend carefully. Every deep bend. Every reaching stretch. Every twist. You feel them the next day. So you choose wisely. Budget your movements. Ration your flexibility.
The magic was always engineering. Just engineering you couldn’t see. Engineering so good it felt like magic. Until it doesn’t anymore.
I watch my son leap from furniture. Land hard on his feet. Bounce back up like nothing happened. His knees don’t even think about complaining. His back doesn’t consider protesting.
His body absorbs impact like water accepts stones. Effortlessly. Naturally. Without consequence or consideration.
He exists in the golden age of unconscious capability. Moving through space as if gravity were merely a suggestion. As if physics didn’t apply. As if bodies never break or tire or need maintenance.
I want to tell him: “Appreciate this. Every jump. Every sprint. Every careless movement. This is temporary magic. It won’t last forever.”
But he wouldn’t understand. How could he? His body works perfectly. Has never failed him. Never required planning or negotiation or careful consultation.
He’s twenty years away from understanding what I know now. Twenty years from missing what he doesn’t know he has.
The tragedy isn’t that we age. That’s natural. Inevitable. Part of being human.
The tragedy is that we waste our prime years taking miracles for granted. Every effortless step was temporary magic we didn’t recognize as spell. Every unconscious movement was a gift we didn’t know we’d lose.
I spent my twenties running without gratitude. Moving without appreciation. Using my body like an infinite resource. Like something that would always work this way.
If I could go back, I wouldn’t run differently. I’d just notice more. Appreciate more. Say thank you more. To legs that carried me. To knees that bent without complaint. To a back that never once asked for special treatment.
But we never do, do we? Never appreciate magic while we have it. Only miss it when it’s gone.
My friend Kamal is forty-five. Had knee surgery last year. Now walks with a slight limp. Permanent.
“I miss running,” he says. “Just running. Without thinking. Without pain. Without wondering if my knee will hold up.”
He doesn’t miss competitive running. Doesn’t miss marathons or races. Misses running to catch a bus. Running up stairs. Running after his kids. Running without thinking about running.
That’s what we lose. Not the spectacular. The ordinary. The unconscious. The automatic. The magic of movement that required no thought.
My wife had shoulder surgery. Rotator cuff. Took a year to heal. She’s better now but different.
“I miss reaching,” she says. “Just reaching up without planning. Without testing. Without wondering if this will hurt.”
She doesn’t miss athletic achievements. Misses reaching for things on high shelves. Misses hanging laundry. Misses ordinary movements that used to be invisible. That are now visible. Conscious. Calculated.
This is aging. Not dramatic decline. Gradual awareness. Slow revelation of machinery that used to be magic. Increasing consciousness of what used to be unconscious.
I can still run. Still climb stairs. Still move through the world. But not unconsciously anymore. Not automatically. Not magically.
Now movement requires presence. Attention. Respect for the machinery. Appreciation for engineering that still works but needs careful handling.
Tonight I stretch before bed. Something I never did at twenty. Seemed unnecessary then. Seems essential now.
I stretch with the reverence I should have shown this body twenty years ago. Gratitude for each muscle that still extends. Each joint that still bends. Each movement that still happens, even if it requires more thought.
Grateful for movement that still serves. Even if it serves differently. Even if it requires consultation. Even if the magic has become visible machinery.
Mourning the dancer I was but never appreciated. The runner who sprinted without thinking. The climber who bounded up stairs. The young man who moved like physics didn’t apply.
He’s gone. Can’t get him back. Can only appreciate that he existed. That I got to be him for a while. That I experienced those years of unconscious capability, even if I didn’t realize how precious they were.
My son will understand someday. Twenty years from now. Thirty. When his own knees start negotiating. When his own back starts requiring consultation. When movement becomes conscious instead of unconscious.
He’ll miss running without thinking about running. Just like I do. Just like everyone does who used to move like magic and now moves like machinery.
But maybe—and this is my hope—maybe he’ll appreciate it more before it’s gone. Maybe he’ll notice the magic while he still has it. Maybe he’ll say thank you to his body while it still doesn’t require thanks.
Maybe knowing the temporary nature of unconscious movement will help him appreciate its magic. Will help him notice grace while he possesses it. Will help him understand that every careless step is a gift.
Or maybe not. Maybe this is something everyone has to learn through loss. Through missing what they didn’t know they had. Through mourning magic they didn’t recognize as spell.
Tonight, I settle into bed carefully. Adjusting pillows. Finding the position that won’t hurt my back. Engineering the perfect arrangement for sleep.
And I remember falling into bed at twenty. Just falling. No thought. No strategy. No engineering. Just sleep.
I miss that. Miss unconscious rest. Miss automatic comfort. Miss the body that served without requiring consultation.
But I’m grateful for the body I have now. Older. More conscious. More mechanical. But still here. Still serving. Still carrying me through another day.
The magic has become machinery. But the machinery still works. And that itself is a kind of magic.
A different magic. A more conscious magic. A magic I appreciate more because I know it’s temporary.
I miss running without thinking about running. But I’m grateful I can still run at all. Even if running now requires thinking. Even if the unconscious has become conscious. Even if the magic has revealed itself as engineering.
This body—with all its maintenance schedules and consultation requirements and careful negotiations—this body is still here. Still moving. Still serving.
And tonight, finally, I say thank you. For carrying me. For bending. For stretching. For moving. For still being here after all these years of use and occasional abuse and constant taking for granted.
I miss the unconscious grace of youth. But I appreciate the conscious gratitude of age.
Both are magic. Just different kinds.
And maybe that’s enough.
