(Part Two of a personal, post-surgery reflection from Pat Tarnowski, Chief Commercial Officer at OneStep, on how technology helps reveal what we can’t always see, and how it can positively impact recovery.)
Seven weeks post rotator cuff repair surgery, I am starting to notice changes that feel both small and meaningful. At five weeks, I removed the bump pillow. At six weeks, I began weaning away from the sling. On paper, these may sound like minor milestones. In reality, they marked the first moments where I felt more like myself again.
Getting into a car without a pillow wedged between my arm and my side. Sleeping in my own bed instead of a recliner. Returning to a regular desk. Each of these moments brought a quiet relief that only someone in recovery truly understands. They also reminded me that progress often shows up in details we once took for granted.
That same realization surfaced during my six week physical therapy visit. I moved from passive movements to slightly more active exercises. Nothing intense. Nothing dramatic. Yet as I walked back to my car afterward, I felt unexpectedly lighter. In that moment, it became clear that sometimes the most meaningful milestone is not a specific movement, but simply seeing a clearer path ahead.
Even with these wins, function is far from normal. Everyday tasks still require planning and creativity. Here in Minnesota, an especially snowy December has meant several rounds of shoveling. I have become surprisingly adept at a one-armed technique, but each attempt is a reminder that I am still operating with limits.
Those limits became even more noticeable around the holidays. Pulling Christmas bins from a closet, setting up a tree, carrying decorations. All still possible, but slower, more deliberate, and more tiring. I am fortunate to have help. Still, these moments have changed how I see the season.
For many older adults and people living with chronic or progressive conditions, adapting traditions is not temporary. It is daily life.
My limitations will improve. Theirs often do not. This recovery period has deepened my appreciation for the physical and emotional energy it takes to maintain a sense of normalcy when mobility changes.
These reflections have followed me into my work as well. Earlier this week, I visited a clinic that specializes in neurologic conditions, concussions, and traumatic brain injuries. We used OneStep to capture baseline gait and mobility measures, then repeated those measurements immediately after treatment.
One patient, a professional golf instructor recovering from a fall off a ladder, left a lasting impression. He is functional, but unsteady. Headaches and dizziness have kept him from returning to work. His baseline data showed clear asymmetries and instability. After treatment, we repeated the measures and saw meaningful improvements in symmetry, step length, stride length, speed, and steadiness.
Not normal values. But clearly better.
When he saw the data, he became emotional. It was not just the numbers. It was what they represented. He looked at the screen and said, “For the first time in a long time, I can see a path forward.” That moment stayed with me. It reinforced how powerful it can be when clinical expertise, supportive communication, and objective data come together. They do more than measure progress. They help create belief.
Belief is a powerful motivator. I recall expressing “belief” in part one of this blog series, “Sometimes progress comes from movement. Sometimes it comes from data. But most often, it starts with the words we use and the belief we give someone that they can keep moving forward.” And belief is often the turning point.
As I continue on my own recovery path, I feel a growing sense of gratitude. Gratitude for the providers who guide patients with skill and empathy. For partners who expand what is possible in rehabilitation and mobility. And for tools that reveal progress we cannot always see or feel day to day.
This season, I am especially mindful of those whose holiday traditions look different because of mobility challenges or health limitations. Recovery has reminded me that independence is fragile, progress is deeply personal, and support, whether through people, words, or data, matters more than we often realize.
Thank you to everyone who has reached out with encouragement or shared your own experiences. I welcome continued conversations about recovery, mobility, aging, and how we can better support people on their movement journeys.
We are how we move.