No one likes being sick—or do they?

It’s a difficult question. It almost feels wrong to even ask. But if we’re willing to look honestly, the answer reveals something fundamental about human nature—something that sits at the core of the dynamic between our primitive, danger-protecting operating system—the Automatic Brain (AB)—and the part of us that distinguishes us from every other creature on earth: the Mind.

Over the past few months, I’ve been dealing with two nagging injuries from my chosen workout: CrossFit.

For those unfamiliar, CrossFit can be challenging. It’s often misunderstood as dangerous or excessive. For me, it has been anything but. It has provided a balance of physical challenge, self-discipline, and growth—not just physically, but mentally. Learning new movements, pushing through discomfort, and engaging fully in the process has real effects: improved circulation, stronger tissue, and even the stimulation of new neural pathways.

So when these injuries developed, I didn’t like it.

But I noticed something interesting.

Each time I felt like I was getting better, I experienced a brief, subtle sense of nervousness. And each time I felt the discomfort itself, I experienced a similar reaction.

Better—uncomfortable.
Worse—also uncomfortable.

A no-win situation.

That is a telltale sign that the AB is at work.

But where does that come from?

If you’ve followed my work, you know I don’t look to blame or play the victim. We all carry the imprint of the AB. It is not a flaw—it is part of being human. But when it operates undetected, it runs the show.

When I reflected on this reaction, I was brought back decades—to my childhood.

When I was sick, even with something minor like a cold, my mother’s attention intensified. Her care, her presence, her focus—all of it increased. And as a child, you don’t analyze that—you absorb it.

Attention equals safety.
Attention equals love.

So what does the AB do? It stores that association.

I can recall, even as a young child, feeling a subtle sadness when I started to get better. Not because I wanted to be sick—but because something was being lost.

That data is still there.

The AB doesn’t forget. It records. It connects. It protects.

So now, decades later, when I feel that slight nervousness as I improve, I understand it. It’s automatic. It’s beyond my control.

But what is within my control is this:

I don’t have to believe it.
I don’t have to trust it.
And I certainly don’t have to take direction from it.

That distinction changes everything.

When I feel discomfort and that same internal reaction, that too is understandable. Pain creates a sense of vulnerability. And the AB is designed to respond to vulnerability with one of two strategies: fight or flight.

But here’s where things escalated.

About two months ago, I hit a breaking point.

After playing pickleball with my family, both injuries flared up. Despite everything I had been doing—physical therapy, modifying workouts, home treatments—it felt like nothing was working.

And in that moment, I did what many of us do.

I went down the rabbit hole.

Instead of stepping back, instead of pausing, I turned to my “trusted advisor”: ChatGPT. It confirmed my fear-driven thinking. Shut it down. Stop CrossFit. Do less.

And for one day, I listened.

Then something shifted.

I stepped back—not from exercise, but from the influence of the AB.

And I listened to something else.

The Mind.

And, in this case, my wife.

She said something simple:
“Don’t you trust your coach?”

That question cut through everything.

So I asked my coach. And I made a decision—not based on fear, but on clarity.

Not less—but more.

More movement. More intention. More engagement.

The AB recoils at that. It interprets discomfort as danger. But the body doesn’t heal through avoidance. It heals through circulation, through stimulus, through intelligent adaptation.

I also took a closer look at my nutrition—specifically protein intake. Despite appearing fit, I was under-consuming what my body needed to repair and rebuild.

I stopped avoiding movements and instead modified them. I began strengthening areas I had ignored. I leaned into the process rather than retreating from it.

And perhaps most importantly, I made a decision:

I was done being sick and tired of being sick and tired.

Now let me be clear.

This is not about “willing” yourself out of real illness. Many of you are dealing with serious medical conditions, and this is not a dismissal of that reality.

But there is something universally applicable here.

Even when we cannot control the condition, we can influence how we respond to it.

The AB will often pull us toward passivity, fear, or overreaction. It will look for safety in places that no longer serve us—old patterns, old associations, old protections.

The Mind does something very different.

It reflects.
It questions.
It chooses.

And when we choose not to believe, trust, or take direction from the reflexive output of the AB, something opens up.

We move forward—not because everything is fixed—but because we are no longer being held hostage.

There is a concept I’ve written about before that applies here:

Pain, whether emotional or physical, often develops when we try to break out of limiting or self-destructive comfort zones. Don’t always trust it as a reliable signal to go back.

The question is not whether the AB will show up.

It will.

The question is whether you recognize it for what it is.

Because once you do, you gain something incredibly powerful:

Choice.

And from that place, even in the presence of discomfort, uncertainty, or illness—you can still live.

You can still engage.

You can still move forward.

You may not always be able to control what your body is going through.

But you can decide whether you will be led by fear…
or guided by something far more steady, far more truthful, and far more powerful.

The Mind.

Related: Fear Is a Liar: Understanding Voice Inside Your Head