Read Andrea’s articles on functional health and healing.
If productivity were the measure of readiness, I’d be fine. I can produce. I can teach. I can create. I can deliver. You’re probably not surprised; you may have even watched me do it. But put a simple life-logistics task in front of me—sign the estate documents, open the mail, handle the thing that makes adulthood obligations feel real—and suddenly I lose traction. My competence doesn’t translate.
Let’s start with a simple question: how are you right now? Not in your life or location, but in your body. Before you answer with a story, take a moment and scan for signals… Do you feel tense and tight? Jittery and braced? Or slow and heavy—like your energy is running on a dimmer switch? Or are you steady enough to stay grounded, even as the terrain shifts beneath you?
There’s a particular strangeness to this week on the calendar. It’s late December—the days between one year and the next. Not quite holiday. Not quite “back to it.” Calendars clear just enough for white space to appear. The inbox quiets down. Meetings fall away.
The first time Isamu was admitted to the UCSF Medical Center, I left the hospital at 3:00 in the morning, carrying his absence in a plastic tote bag. His jeans. The T-shirt and flannel he'd arrived in. His socks and shoes, still holding the shape of his feet. The nurse had helped me peel his clothes off earlier that night, when his headache became unbearable and he could no longer sit upright without vomiting.
Across cultures, continents, and centuries, people have always made maps of the territory of transition. Birth, adolescence, partnership, death—these were never meant to be private experiences. They were marked, named, and held in community. They were marked, named, and held in community.
The body often knows before we do. An email lands, a conversation shifts, a familiar rhythm we've relied on starts to fray. And even before we name it as an ending, something in us has already registered the change, signaling that we've stepped out of accustomed territory and into the unknown. Sleep patterns break. Appetite loses its usual shape. There's a hum of vigilance just under the skin.
The body tells the truth about change before the mind has words for it: sleep alters, appetite wobbles, attention narrows or scatters. That's because transition isn't just an event; its a process with its own anatomy. Something ends. There's a middle that asks more of us than we first imagined.
Today. July 16th marks my birthday. And later this week, the anniversary of Isamu’s death—twenty-three years ago.
These two dates live in tandem on the calendar. Just two days between them. And every year, I feel it—an invisible weight pulling through my chest, my breath, my skin. A kind of cellular knowing that this week hints at more than a passage of time. It’s another threshold.
Welcome to mending, a monthly haven where words meet inner wisdom, and stories intertwine with the art of health and healing. At the heart of Narrative Medicine is a belief in the power of the human story. Words, among other human expressions, have the ability to enlighten and connect us to our most vulnerable or even seemingly insignificant moments in life.
In the early morning hours—when the world is quiet and the page is still listening—I often find myself returning to the stories I’ve inherited, those I’ve told many times, and others I’m only just beginning to reclaim. Lately, as I explore the world of longevity, those stories have circled around aging—not simply as a biological process, but as a reflection of culture. A culture that tells those in midlife and beyond: you’re disappearing. Your symptoms are glitches. Your wisdom has an expiration date.
Last time I wrote to you, I shared some thoughts about the stories we carry—about health, aging, and what it means to live inside a body that doesn’t always follow the script.Lately, I’ve been trying to listen more deeply to my own.
Welcome to mending, a monthly haven where words meet inner wisdom, and stories intertwine with the art of health and healing. At the heart of Narrative Medicine is a belief in the power of the human story. Words, among other human expressions, have the ability to enlighten and connect us to our most vulnerable or even seemingly insignificant moments in life.
Welcome to mending, a monthly haven where words meet inner wisdom, and stories intertwine with the art of health and healing. At the heart of Narrative Medicine is a belief in the power of the human story. Words, among other human expressions, have the ability to enlighten and connect us to our most vulnerable or even seemingly insignificant moments in life.
Welcome to mending, a monthly haven where words meet inner wisdom, and stories intertwine with the art of health and healing. At the heart of Narrative Medicine is a belief in the power of the human story. Words, among other human expressions, have the ability to enlighten and connect us to our most vulnerable or even seemingly insignificant moments in life.
Belonging is a deeply human need. It's more than being surrounded by others, part of the herd or crowd. It’s about feeling seen, accepted, and understood for who we truly are. And it doesn’t always require big gestures, grand summons, or the gravitational pull of a mob. Sometimes, it’s just an unspoken understanding, care without question, a connection that quietly binds us.
Welcome to mending, a monthly haven where words meet inner wisdom, and stories intertwine with the art of health and healing. At the heart of Narrative Medicine is a belief in the power of the human story. Words, among other human expressions, have the ability to enlighten and connect us to our most vulnerable or even seemingly insignificant moments in life.
Some moments in life take our breath away—not because of shock or fear, but because they strike a deep chord within us. Maybe the swell of music or a particular lyric leaves you wiping tears from your eyes, or a stranger’s act of kindness momentarily restores your faith in humanity. Perhaps it’s the quiet wonder of seeing someone you love embraced for exactly who they are or a faded photograph that brings a rush of memories—joyful, bittersweet, or both.
Welcome to mending, a monthly haven where words meet inner wisdom, and stories intertwine with the art of health and healing. At the heart of Narrative Medicine is a belief in the power of the human story. Words, among other human expressions, have the ability to enlighten and connect us to our most vulnerable or even seemingly insignificant moments in life.
When managing your health becomes a full-time job, it’s easy to feel disheartened. You may have tried the latest diet trends and supplements, hoping that each new approach will bring lasting relief. But instead, it feels like the same place, the same symptoms, like you’re balancing on a tightrope that could give way at any moment.
Welcome to mending, a monthly haven where words meet inner wisdom, and stories intertwine with the art of health and healing. At the heart of Narrative Medicine is a belief in the power of the human story. Words, among other human expressions, have the ability to enlighten and connect us to our most vulnerable or even seemingly insignificant moments in life.
Welcome to mending, a monthly haven where words meet inner wisdom, and stories intertwine with the art of health and healing. At the heart of Narrative Medicine is a belief in the power of the human story. Words, among other human expressions, have the ability to enlighten and connect us to our most vulnerable or even seemingly insignificant moments in life.
Welcome to mending, a monthly haven where words meet inner wisdom, and stories intertwine with the art of health and healing. At the heart of Narrative Medicine is a belief in the power of the human story. Words, among other human expressions, have the ability to enlighten and connect us to our most vulnerable or even seemingly insignificant moments in life.
“The telling of stories alters who we become.” - Ben Okri What is Narrative Medicine? You might be pondering this question right now or as you engage with my newest offerings. If you are, I applaud your curiosity. You're in good company!
Welcome to mending, a monthly haven where words meet inner wisdom, and stories intertwine with the art of health and healing. At the heart of Narrative Medicine is a belief in the power of the human story. Words, among other human expressions, have the ability to enlighten and connect us to our most vulnerable or even seemingly insignificant moments in life.
“In nature, nothing exists alone.” - Rachel Carson, Silent Spring Imagine a spider's web. Pull one thread, and the delicate structure shrinks, shrivels, or spoils. Each finespun fiber is essential to the stability of the whole. Similarly, the human body is an intricate web of interconnections.
Welcome to mending, a monthly haven where words meet inner wisdom, and stories intertwine with the art of health and healing. At the heart of Narrative Medicine is a belief in the power of the human story. Words, among other human expressions, have the ability to enlighten and connect us to our most vulnerable or even seemingly insignificant moments in life.
If you’ve traveled the landscape of modern medicine in search of answers to your chronic health challenges, you’ve likely encountered the profound influence and appeal of Evidence-Based Medicine (EBM).
Last week, I recorded a podcast hosted by a naturopathic doctor. As we got into the conversation, we found ourselves talking about our personal journeys through perimenopause and menopause. While we both diligently drew labs and collected plenty of data and biomarkers, we each noticed that it wasn’t this quantitative data that shifted our symptoms.
You can’t “hack” your health. If you don’t have a chronic health concern and you use biohacking techniques to optimize your physical performance, there’s no need to read any further. This post isn’t for you because you may be among the lucky few who can successfully hack a thing or two. But if you struggle with an unresolved health issue – whether it’s related to pain, fatigue, digestion, immune function, focus, or your ever-changing hormones – then I regret to relay that the hacks you seek may do more harm than good.
Perimenopause is the clearest proof I have that transition isn’t linear—and that change often includes grief. You can wake up and feel like yourself—clear, capable, even a little brave—and by evening feel like your body has changed the rules again. Heat rises. Sleep splinters. Focus slips. Even your own scent can feel unfamiliar.