“Injuries don’t define your career, how you come back from them does….”

― Unknown

For years now, one of the biggest issues I have seen in rehabilitation and performance is the gap between returning an athlete to participation and truly returning them to performance.

I was recently at a workshop with my good friend Matt Jordan, who was presenting on force deck testing and how we can use data to better understand asymmetries, loading strategies, and readiness for return to performance after injury.

One of the major themes discussed was the difference between return to play and return to performance.

Those are not the same thing.

Far too often, athletes are medically cleared before they are truly prepared for the demands of sport. The knee looks good. The timeline has been respected. Strength has improved. The athlete reports feeling “good.”

But underneath that, there are often still major gaps in movement quality, force absorption, deceleration ability, confidence, and adaptability.

And eventually, those gaps often show themselves.

Sometimes the athlete re-injures the same knee. Sometimes they injure the opposite side. Sometimes the compensation patterns begin to move up the chain and we start seeing hip issues, SI joint irritation, low back problems, or thoracic spine stiffness.

I have seen this repeatedly throughout my career.

The reality is that returning from ACL reconstruction is not simply about producing force again. It is also about learning to absorb force again. It is about restoring confidence, movement options, variability, and adaptability.

A lot of athletes become stiffer after injury.

They land differently. They cut differently. They decelerate differently.

And often they do not even realize they are doing it.

Research from clinicians and researchers like Clare Ardern has highlighted the importance of psychological readiness in successful return to sport after ACL reconstruction. Athletes may be physically present, but still moving protectively. The brain remembers where danger occurred, and certain positions or actions can become associated with threat.

That matters.

Because the nervous system changes movement behavior under threat.

Research from Paul Hodges and Gregor Tucker on motor adaptation to pain has helped demonstrate that prior pain changes movement strategies. The body reorganizes how it moves in an attempt to protect itself.

This can lead to:

• stiffer landings
• hesitation during cutting
• altered trunk mechanics
• reduced knee flexion
• shifting away from the involved side
• reduced movement variability

Protection narrows movement options.

And sport is chaos.

The athlete must be able to adapt dynamically to changing environments, speeds, fatigue, reactions, and uncertainty.

This is one of the reasons I believe deceleration is such an important and often overlooked skill after ACL reconstruction.

Many athletes regain propulsive capabilities relatively well. They can squat, jump, and produce force.

But accepting force is different.

Deceleration is a skill.

Good movement is not just about producing force. It is about absorbing it.

One of the most important things I have observed over my career is that athletes often struggle to truly “accept the ground” again after ACL reconstruction. They redirect load. They shorten the deceleration phase. They stiffen. They avoid positions subconsciously.

And if we are not assessing those qualities carefully, we may miss important deficits that still exist beneath the surface.

This becomes even more important when we consider how ACL injury changes sensory and proprioceptive input.

The ACL is not just a passive structure. It contributes sensory information to the brain regarding joint position and movement. Surgery changes that sensory environment. Graft harvesting changes it further.

The brain now has different information coming from the knee.

And inputs shape outputs.

If the nervous system no longer fully trusts the information it receives from the joint, movement expression changes.

The athlete has to relearn how to organize movement around a different sensory reality.

This is why I believe post-ACL rehabilitation never truly ends.

There is always maintenance.

There is always continued adaptation.

There is always ongoing exposure to variability, fatigue, deceleration, reactivity, and chaos.

Because movement is never static.

Researchers in ecological dynamics and movement variability have long emphasized that human movement is adaptive and self-organizing. No two sporting actions are ever exactly the same. Healthy systems adapt dynamically to changing constraints and environments.

Rigid systems struggle in chaos.

And often after injury, rigidity becomes the nervous system’s solution.

Our role as practitioners is to gradually restore movement options, confidence, variability, and adaptability so the athlete can once again solve movement problems fluidly and efficiently.

That is what true return to performance requires.

Not just tissue healing.

Not just timelines.

Not just isolated strength.

But adaptable human movement.

On June 14th in Montreal, we’ll be spending an entire day diving into these concepts during our ACL Reconditioning Intensive at Elite Conditioning.

We’ll discuss:

• deceleration and force absorption
• asymmetry and compensation
• sensory and proprioceptive considerations
• variability and adaptability
• return-to-performance preparation
• fatigue and chaotic environments
• practical assessment and programming strategies

Because the goal is not simply getting athletes back to participation.

The goal is preparing them to thrive once they return.

Maybe we’ll see you there! 

www.ReconditioningHQ.com

 “Change the way you look at things and the things you look at change.”

― Wayne Dryer

Perspective…

I am often asked, as I was again this past week while back home in Ottawa for a workshop, “Do you miss working in the NHL?”

For those reading who may not know my history, I worked in the NHL as an Athletic Therapist and Strength and Conditioning Coach from 1998 to 2009. My first year in the league was with the New York Islanders organization, but after a chaotic season and an uncertain future, I accepted the same role with the New York Rangers.

After two seasons with the Rangers, and a management and coaching change following my first year, I found myself out of a job in the spring of 2001.

Uncertain of what was next, I spent that summer roaming Manhattan and, somewhat randomly, took a Pilates instructor certification for fun.

Then, in August of 2001, I was hired by the Montreal Canadiens and returned home to the city where I had gone to school and built much of my early career through the 1990s.

My first days with the organization were marked by learning that our captain, Saku Koivu, had stage-three cancer, followed shortly after by the events of 9/11. Suffice to say, it was a heavy beginning to the next chapter of my life.

Back to the workshop.

This time the question came a little differently:

“Do you regret leaving the Canadiens now that the team is doing so well?”

If you are not a hockey fan, or specifically a Canadiens fan, you may not realize the organization has spent much of the last thirty-plus years trying to rediscover its former glory. Since their last Stanley Cup in 1993, there have been flashes of competitiveness, but very few moments where the team was truly considered a serious Cup contender.

But right now, they are deep in the process of creating something quite special. The youngest team in the playoffs, a rookie coach, Marty St.Louis, who continues to impress as he grows into his role, and a feeling around the city that something magical might just happen sooner rather than later.

However, when I arrived in 2001, the organization had been dealing with three straight seasons of over 500 man games lost due to injury. To put that in perspective, the league average was around 250. It is hard to win when much of your starting lineup is in the clinic instead of on the ice.

Part of why I was hired was to help reduce that number.

Over the years, we brought the team average down to roughly 180, including one season as low as 108. We improved availability significantly, but improved health does not automatically equal championships.

Those years were a mixed bag. Aging stars. Injured stars. Inconsistent drafting. Moments of hope mixed with stretches of frustration.

One season, though, it felt like something special might happen.

Sheldon Souray had returned from wrist surgery and was having a tremendous year. Alex Kovalev was fully engaged and playing brilliant hockey. Saku Koivu, after his cancer recovery, was in his prime as a leader and player.

We went up 2-0 on Carolina in the playoffs and the city was alive.

Then Saku suffered a serious eye injury.

We lost four straight.

Carolina went on to win the Stanley Cup.

That is sport sometimes. Tiny moments that change everything.

I remained with the Canadiens until the summer of 2009. The year before, my wife and I had welcomed our first and only child into the world. I was already forty-five years old, and suddenly life felt different. Priorities shifted.

I had an opportunity to move into Olympic sport, and I decided it was time to leave professional hockey behind.

So when people ask me if I miss it, the answer is layered.

I absolutely reflect fondly on the camaraderie, the relationships, and the incredible energy that surrounds a city when a team is winning. There is truly nothing quite like playoff hockey in Montreal. I experienced it a handful of times, and when that city comes alive, it is unforgettable.

But I also remember the heaviness.

Nostalgia has a funny way of softening the edges of reality. Professional sport is far more losing than winning, and when things are not going well, everyone around the team carries that burden.

The Islanders, to put it politely, were a gong show. My first season in the league became an exercise in humility and disappointment. A twenty-seven-day training camp in Lake Placid instead of the normal seven. Missing key players. Constant instability. A season that felt cursed from the start.

The Rangers had resources and star power, but also disappointment. We missed the playoffs. There were coaching and management changes. Mark Messier returned. Theo Fleury arrived. Mike Richter tore his ACL again. Expectations were enormous, but success never followed.

Then suddenly, no playoffs and no job.

Life in professional sport is a strange mix of glamour and grind. Beautiful hotels, charter flights, incredible restaurants, and world-class arenas blended with relentless pressure, exhaustion, uncertainty, and emotional swings.

When you are winning, it can feel magical.

When you are losing, it can feel very dark.

To put it into perspective, if I had stayed in the NHL from 1998 until today, I would have spent twenty-eight years in the league and never won a Stanley Cup. I would have experienced the Final only once.

The current Head Athletic Therapist of the Canadiens, Jim Ramsay, who I worked with in New York, has spent thirty-six years in the NHL and has only reached the Final once as well.

The former Head Athletic Therapist in Montreal, Graham Rynbend, dedicated close to twenty-seven years to the organization and never won one either.

That is how hard it is to win.

Winning is not everything, but it certainly makes life feel lighter.

I loved my years in the league. They were meaningful, unforgettable, and helped shape so many experiences and relationships that followed.

Do I miss it?

No, I do not.

I look back with clarity now. I know exactly what it was. I grew tremendously through those experiences, and there are countless stories I could tell about my life in the game, but I will leave most of them where they belong.

Would I enjoy being there right now while the team is finally building momentum again?

Of course.

But in order to experience the possibility of winning now, I would have had to live through twenty-eight years of everything else that came before it.

I chose a different path.

And I have no regrets.

Now, I simply cheer for the people I know who continue the pursuit.

And even now, there is still a lot of real estate between today and someone hoisting the Stanley Cup.

Nothing is guaranteed.

So I will enjoy the ride from my couch.

Go Habs Go.

 “The way to get started is to quit talking and begin doing.”

― Walt Disney

It’s Mother’s Day weekend, and it had me scrolling through my picture library looking for photos to use as a tribute to all the mothers who have been part of our journey.

Thank you, by the way.

Maybe that’s the first place to begin when talking about action and the danger of waiting.

I don’t think anyone on this planet truly knows or feels ready to become a parent, especially a mother. Giving birth is no picnic, and everything that comes afterward is always being experienced for the very first time.

If we waited until we were ready, many of us would never have children at all. And we all know where that leads.

And that’s the point.

Don’t wait.

As I thumbed through old photos (that’s old school for scrolling), I started realizing just how much I’ve done, seen, tried, failed at, explored, and attempted again.

Life is not really about achieving as much as it is about exploring what’s possible.

Everyone wonders why we are here. What is our purpose?

The truth is that life itself is the gift.

A gift of opportunity.
A gift of possibility.

We get to do this.
We get to try.

The doing is in the being, and the being is in the doing. They coexist. We try things, we experience them, and through those experiences we discover where we find joy, meaning, frustration, heartbreak, excitement, and growth.

We feel it all.

That’s what our senses are for. They allow us to experience what it means to be alive.

But far too often, we are consumed by either the beginning or the end, instead of the experience itself. We let the fear of negative outcomes stop us from moving forward, or we become so attached to positive outcomes that we lose touch with what is happening right now.

Too often, we convince ourselves there will be a better time.

That this thing can wait.
That we can wait.

But time runs out.
It always does.

And none of us knows how much sand remains in the hourglass.

That book you wanted to write…

Write it.

That trip you wanted to take…

Take it.

That friend you wanted to call…

Call them.

That conversation you wanted to have…

Have it.

That course you wanted to create…

Create it.

That person you wanted to become…

Become them.

There is no reason to wait.

Waiting is like a mirage. Everything looks interesting, but nothing is ever truly experienced.

Mark Twain once said, “The secret to getting ahead is getting started.”

Imagine the possibilities created by your actions, not your inactions.

Walt Disney had a dream. He wanted to build a place where people could experience joy, even if only for a day. A place where imagination, wonder, and possibility came alive.

One could argue that it has become far too commercialized and materialized over time. I understand that perspective.

But I still prefer to recognize the intention behind it.

The belief that people could imagine something greater.
The belief that possibility matters.
The belief that dreams are worth pursuing despite obstacles, setbacks, criticism, or doubt.

That is the essence of action.

The willingness to move toward possibility before certainty arrives.

The key to overcoming impossibility is often found in a single moment of action that sees past doubt and chooses movement anyway.

As Pablo Picasso once said:

“Only put off until tomorrow what you are willing to die having left undone.”

So…

What will you do today?

 “If you don’t like the road you’re walking, pave another one”

― Dolly Parton

Lately, I’ve found myself stepping back and looking at things a little differently.

What I’m beginning to understand is this.

Nothing really happens to us.
We just make it about us.

Life unfolds the way it unfolds. Events come and go. Moments rise and fall. But somewhere along the way, we attach meaning to those moments. We build a story. We assign a label. We decide whether something is good or bad, fair or unfair, meant for us or against us.

And in doing so, we create the weight we end up carrying.

If we could learn to let life be what it is, without immediately interpreting it, analyzing it, or personalizing it, we would probably feel a lot lighter. Not because life becomes easier, but because we stop adding to it.

The same holds true with people.

If we allowed others to simply be who they are, without filtering them through our own expectations or judgments, we might find their company easier to enjoy. People are different. That’s not something to fix. It’s something to observe.

Observation creates space.
Judgment creates tension.

When we observe, we learn. When we allow, we open ourselves to something we might not have seen otherwise. It may not always align with how we would do things, but that doesn’t make it wrong. It just makes it different.

And then there’s the life we’re living.

The reality is, the life we have right now is the one we’ve created, whether consciously or not. If we want something different, we don’t need to wait. We need to move.

Action creates change.
Inaction preserves the status quo.

Nature doesn’t stand still. It moves toward entropy. And so do we. If we don’t choose a direction, one will be chosen for us.

That’s often what feeling stuck really is. Not an external force holding us in place, but an internal hesitation to step forward.

It’s easy to point outward. Circumstances, responsibilities, other people. But when you strip it all down, what holds us back most often is ourselves.

That’s not meant to be harsh. It’s meant to be freeing.

Because if it’s on us, then it’s also within our control to change.

No one is coming to save you.
But that doesn’t mean you have to do it alone.

In fact, one of the best parts of this whole experience is that we get to share it. We get to walk alongside others, learn from them, lean on them, and contribute to something beyond ourselves.

There’s also something I’ve come to appreciate about loss.

When something leaves our life, we tend to focus on what’s gone. That’s natural. But what we often don’t see, at least not right away, is what that loss creates space for.

Something new.
Someone new.
A different version of ourselves.

That doesn’t make loss easy. Especially when it involves people we love. But it does remind us that life continues to move, and that movement always brings possibility with it.

Which leads me to something else.

You are always in the right place at the right time.

Not because everything is perfect, but because everything that’s happening is part of a path that’s still unfolding. We rarely understand it in the moment. Most of the time, we only see it looking back.

And through all of it, one thing remains constant.

You are always choosing.

Even when you think you’re not. Even when you hesitate, avoid, or stand still. That, too, is a choice.

Life is a series of forks in the road. None of them come with guarantees. None of them come with certainty. They simply come with direction.

And once you begin to accept that, something interesting happens.

You start to realize that control, as we often define it, doesn’t really exist.

We can influence. We can prepare. We can respond.

But we can’t control outcomes the way we think we can.

And once you let go of that need, there’s a certain freedom that comes with it.

You become more present.
More aware.
More open to what is.

And if you find yourself in a moment that doesn’t feel right, you can remind yourself that it won’t last.

Another moment is coming.
Another choice is waiting.

And maybe the most important realization of all.

Don’t hold back your capacity to love.

Not for yourself. Not for others. Not based on whether someone has “earned” it in your eyes.

Just allow it.

Because when you do, it tends to find its way back to you, often in ways you didn’t expect.