I've had two slipped disc surgeries.

The first one was so severe I had to relearn how to walk. You know, that thing toddlers figure out around 12 months?

Yeah, I got to experience that again in my 40s. Humbling doesn't quite cover it.

The second surgery left my fourth left finger constantly tingling. A permanent reminder that my body is apparently held together with biological duct tape and wishful thinking.

Both injuries might have been preventable. If I'd been stronger. If I'd been healthier. If I'd paid attention before my spine staged a dramatic exit.

When I turned 46, a sobering thought hit me: I've crossed the halfway point of my human journey. That’s assuming I make it to 90. Which, given my genetic lottery winnings, is optimistic at best.

But even if I make it to 90, would that be ideal? Body parts worn down, memory resembling Swiss cheese, possibly needing help with basic dignity. I watched my late mother become increasingly frail in her 80s, her world shrinking with each passing year. My father died of a heart attack. My mother battled high cholesterol and high blood pressure. Diabetes runs on my father's side. My mother had dementia.

So my DNA is basically a greatest hits compilation of "Ways Your Body Can Betray You."

That's why health and fitness became non-negotiable. Not inspirational-Instagram-quote non-negotiable. Actually non-negotiable.

It started simply enough. I just wanted to keep carrying my kids as they grew heavier. But when hoisting two 30kg children made my lower back scream in protest, the ghost of those surgeries came rushing back. Nothing says "peak dad fitness" like your spine threatening to file for divorce mid-piggyback ride.

(Thankfully, my petite fourth kid still gets the full swing-around treatment. She's my ego-saver.)

Beyond the physical capability, I want to witness as much of their lives as possible. Not as a pro bono babysitter for grandkids. Let's be clear, I've done my time in the parenting trenches. But I want to be there for the milestones: watching them find their partners, walking them down the aisle, meeting their children.

More than that, I want independence. At 79, I want to travel the world, go on hikes, and roam around freely. Maybe even paraglide or skydive. You know, normal old-person activities that terrify your adult children.

Not shuffling with a walking stick or confined to a wheelchair, playing the world's saddest game of "Which Body Part Gave Up Today?"

Mobility is freedom. And I've already had a preview of what losing it looks like.

So the health journey began. But how do I know I'm on the right track? My Apple Watch shows calories burned, but what about cholesterol levels? Blood pressure? Calorie intake? How many seemingly fit athletes have dropped dead from clogged arteries while their Strava stats looked immaculate?

Turns out, "I feel fine" is not a reliable health metric. Shocking, I know.

I needed to start measuring everything.

This is the friendlier version of Apple's Fitness app, less "CLOSE YOUR RINGS OR YOU'RE A FAILURE" and more "Hey, maybe don't destroy yourself today."

I've been using it for half a year now, and I love the at-a-glance insights: Am I pushing too hard? (Yes, usually.) Do I need to move more? (Also yes.) It translates burned calories into food equivalents, which is both motivating and depressing. "Congratulations, you just burned off half a sandwich."

The phone app displays heart rate zones in real-time. Far more intuitive than Apple's native Activity app, which seems designed by people who think everyone naturally understands their VO2 max.

At $49.99 a year, Welling is a sophisticated calorie tracker that's basically the financial equivalent of a daily latte habit, except it makes you lose weight instead of gaining it.

Snap a photo of a nutrition label, barcode, or your meal, and it analyzes everything instantly. It's like having a judgmental nutritionist in your pocket, minus the judgment.

My daily target is 1,500 calories as I work toward 78kg. But here's what surprised me five months ago: Welling revealed my macronutrients were completely off. I thought my protein intake was high. You know, because I ate chicken sometimes and felt very proud of myself.

Turns out I was nowhere near enough. The app basically said, "LOL, cute try."

That data motivated me to incorporate protein shakes and lean more heavily toward protein-rich foods. The kind of course correction I couldn't have made without measurement, or without accepting that my nutritional intuition is approximately as reliable as a weather forecast three months out.

The results? Weight loss is happening. Slowly but steadily. My energy levels have climbed. I'm far less reliant on coffee than I used to be, which means I'm down to only three cups a day instead of "yes."

I've always used my Apple Watch for tracking, but sleep monitoring remained elusive. By day's end, the battery is drained, and I need a full charge for the morning so my watch spends nights on the charger instead of on my wrist.

Essentially, Apple created a health device that can't actually track one-third of your health because it needs to sleep more than you do.

I considered the Oura ring, but beyond the hefty price tag, I couldn't imagine lifting weights with it on. Nothing says "I've made poor life choices" like accidentally destroying a $300+ ring doing bicep curls.

So I went with the Hume Band two months ago.

With nearly seven days of battery life, it tracks everything: steps, sleep, heart rate, HRV, stress levels, body temperature, and SpO2. There's no screen to distract you. All data lives in the phone app, which is refreshing in a "not everything needs to buzz and ping at me" kind of way.

The impact? My sleep has improved noticeably. I'm waking up less during the night, which explains the energy boost and why I'm only moderately cranky now instead of full goblin mode.

There's one persistent bug, though. The app won't pick up my exercises from Apple Health, leaving my "metabolic momentum" reading blank. Customer service promised a fix in future updates, which is tech-speak for "we'll get to it when we get to it."

It's frustrating buying something to use now, not in the mythical future when all software bugs are magically resolved and we're all driving flying cars.

Still, I kept it past the 30-day return window. Why?

From the same company and integrated into the same app, the Hume Pod is a body scanner that measures far more than weight.

It tracks body fat percentage, muscle mass by major body parts, skeletal muscle mass, visceral fat index, and probably your deepest insecurities if you look at the data long enough.

Combined, these metrics generate a comprehensive health score. A single number that tells me if I'm on track for healthy aging or if I should start saying goodbye to my knees now.

One month in, and this feels like the missing piece. The Pod is basically the brutally honest friend who tells you what you need to hear, not what you want to hear.

I recently watched a video about Charlotte Lim, better known as the "Pullup Grandma." She started her fitness journey at 72 after retiring from a sedentary corporate career—which means she looked at retirement and thought, "You know what sounds fun? Pullups. Lots of them."

At 79, she performs up to 100 pull-ups and maintains a 15% body fat percentage. She looks like she's in her 50s.

Meanwhile, I struggle to do 10 pullups and look like I'm in my... well, 46.

She's the complete opposite of how frail my mother became. And given my genetic hand (heart disease, high cholesterol, high blood pressure, diabetes, dementia), Charlotte isn't just inspiring. She's proof that DNA isn't destiny if you're willing to work against it.

Or, as I like to think of it: genetic revenge.

I don't need 100 pull-ups. But matching her mobility, her energy, her independence at 79? That's the goal. That's the "screw you" to my family's medical history I'm working toward.

At this moment, the costs feel justified. Nearly $50 a year for Welling, plus the hardware investments. It's cheaper than future medical bills, and considerably cheaper than early retirement because my body gave up.

Even though tracking can become obsessive, I don't let it rule me. When I'm on holiday, I ignore everything. If you can't take two weeks off to enjoy life without obsessing over macros, the regimen is pointless. What's the point of living longer if you're miserable the entire time?

But for now, every data point is a step toward the future I want: travelling freely, hiking mountains, maybe even jumping out of a plane at 79.

Not because I'm chasing immortality. I'm not delusional. But because I refuse to let my body become a prison. Been there, done that, have the surgical scars and tingling finger to prove it.

I've already had two surgeries. I've already relearned how to walk once.

I'm not doing that again.

This time, I'm measuring my way out.

Adrian Tan
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