Twenty years of debugging one very hard system: mine.

I spent my career in software and engineering, where the discipline is simple to state and hard to practice: when something breaks, you don't keep patching the visible symptom. You investigate the system, test assumptions, and look for the leverage points. You don't wait for failure before thinking about capacity. You build in headroom before you need it.

The system that broke

I've gone through 8 surgeries and live with a genetic connective tissue condition that doesn't forgive guesswork. It predisposed me to “faulty,” or at least less reliable, neurobiomechanical loops: the system that senses, predicts, and organizes movement didn't always produce stable, trustworthy output. Generic protocols weren't designed for my body, and I kept incurring one setback after another.

After biceps tenodesis surgery, I developed eight months of frozen shoulder and had seven dislocations in my left shoulder. I became afraid of moving. What I didn't know was that the fear of movement was costing me. When your nervous system doesn't feel safe, it changes how your body organizes movement, and that led to more injuries. I was convinced the surgery had failed, that this was simply what that shoulder was going to be now. Nobody could tell me why a repaired body could still feel so unsafe to move.

The trajectory for my hip began in my twenties, and a major automobile accident cemented it. The accident took mobility from my thoracic spine, which brought more problems: an intercostal strain, thoracic outlet syndrome, and a misaligned pelvis. Decades of poor biomechanics led to protrusio, where my hip sat deep in my pelvic cavity, because my pelvis was misaligned in all three planes. Two decades on, I was at end-stage arthritis and needed a total hip replacement.

And then the recovery went badly, and no one could clearly explain why. My body did not let go of guarding and protection for almost an entire year.

Twenty years of trying everything

For twenty years, every setback sent me looking for the next answer, and every time I rebuilt myself and tried again. I tried everything. I thought I knew exercise, movement, and lifestyle inside and out. Generic advice wasn't enough and surface-level changes rarely held, but I kept assuming the answer was one more refinement of what I already knew. It wasn't until my hip replacement, and a recovery nobody could explain, that I understood how much I didn't know. That is when I truly learned this field.

So I did what engineers do

After the hip, I went back to first principles. If my body was a system that kept failing in ways the standard playbook couldn't explain, then I was missing part of the model. I dug into how pain actually works, how movement is controlled, and how load moves through a body.

That's where I found neurobiomechanics, and it changed how I understood everything that had happened to me. I had been treating two things as separate: the mechanics of my joints and tissue, and my nervous system. They aren't separate. Your brain and nervous system organize movement. They decide how much range, force, and protection your body allows, based on what it senses and what it predicts. Your biomechanics feed information back to that system, and the system adjusts. It's a loop, and a body that's been through repeated injury and surgery has a nervous system with very good reasons to stay on high alert.

As an engineer, that made sense to me. It was a control system, and control systems can be understood and tuned. I became passionate about neurobiomechanics because I wanted to understand my own body well enough to actually fix it, not just manage it.

From there, I applied the same discipline I would to any system I depend on. I stopped chasing symptoms and started looking at what was driving them: how I moved, how I loaded, how I slept, how I recovered, and how my nervous system responded to all of it.

That forced a method, the same one I now use with clients: assess the system before building a plan, stabilize the contributors that can be changed, then expand capacity on a foundation that can support it.

Why it isn't only for people in pain

Over time I realized this method isn't just for people already in pain. It works the same way for someone who has no pain at all and simply wants a body that can handle more, longer hours, harder training, real output under real load, built deliberately instead of left to chance. Same assessment process. Different starting point.

That's the whole premise of Rebuilt With Geeta: your body is a system, and it deserves the same rigor you'd apply to any system you actually depend on.