Monthly Archives: November 2025

The Silent Conversation Between You and Your Bones

The Silent Conversation Between You and Your Bones

Every Impact Is a Message: Stay Alive, Stay Strong, Stay in Motion

 By Thom Hartmann, Wisdom School

As Louise and I have aged (our 54th wedding anniversary is in two weeks), we’ve noticed that one of the biggest challenges is keeping our posture straight and our bones from getting brittle. There’s science behind this challenge, and it gives us all suggestions for “keeping young.” 

Bone is one of the few tissues in the human body that remains alive and dynamic from birth to death. It’s not the rigid, inert structure most people imagine when they think of skeletons. In fact, it’s constantly growing, dying, dissolving, and rebuilding itself through a delicate dance between two main kinds of cells—osteoblasts and osteoclasts. 

This balance is what keeps us upright, protects our organs, and allows our muscles to move us through life. But as we get older, the harmony between building and breaking begins to shift, and the results can be devastating. Understanding how that process happens—and how we might slow or reverse it—is one of the quiet frontiers of aging science.

Bone is built primarily by osteoblasts, the construction workers of our skeleton. They take raw materials—calcium, phosphate, and collagen—and create new bone matrix. This matrix starts out soft, like scaffolding, then mineralizes into the hard tissue we recognize as bone. Opposing them are osteoclasts, which act more like demolition crews. They dissolve old or damaged bone so it can be replaced. 

In a healthy adult, these two systems are in balance: every bit of bone that’s broken down is replaced by new bone. But that balance depends on a complex interplay of hormones, mechanical stress, and nutrients that becomes harder to maintain with age.

When we’re young, our bodies prioritize growth and repair. Hormones like growth hormone, estrogen, and testosterone all signal bone-building cells to stay active and reproduce. Even the act of moving—walking, climbing stairs, carrying groceries—tells our bones to stay strong. 

Osteoblasts thrive on impact; they literally sense mechanical stress and respond by building more bone where it’s needed. That’s why astronauts lose bone density in zero gravity and bedridden patients lose it quickly in immobilized limbs. Bones are designed for stress. They grow from it, adapt to it, and depend on it.

But aging quietly changes the equation. By the time most people reach their 40s or 50s, osteoblasts start slowing down while osteoclasts keep right on working. Estrogen and testosterone, which protect against bone loss, begin to drop. In women, the sharp decline in estrogen during menopause often leads to an acceleration of bone loss so dramatic it can reach one to two percent per year. 

The result is a net thinning of the bones that can culminate in osteopenia or osteoporosis. What’s more, osteoblasts themselves become less responsive to mechanical stress and less efficient at mineralizing new bone, while their numbers dwindle with each passing decade.

Yet, there’s another layer to this story that is both hopeful and cautionary. Bone cells are not fixed in number; they arise from progenitor cells—stem-like precursors in the bone marrow and periosteum (the thin tissue surrounding bones). These progenitor cells can, under the right conditions, become new osteoblasts. 

Exercise, especially high-impact weight-bearing exercise, stimulates their differentiation. Nutrients like vitamin D, calcium, and magnesium fuel the process. Even exposure to sunlight, through its effect on vitamin D synthesis, plays a critical role in signaling these cells to mature. In a very real sense, every step we take outdoors in the sunshine is a small act of bone regeneration.

On the other hand, disuse and a sedentary lifestyle send the opposite message. When bones aren’t stressed, the progenitor cells shift toward becoming fat cells instead of bone cells, and osteoclasts take over the stage. 

This explains why modern sedentary living, coupled with diets low in essential minerals, has created an epidemic of bone fragility even among people who think of themselves as healthy. 

It also explains why impact—whether from walking, jumping, or resistance training—isn’t just good for muscle tone; it’s a direct message to your bones to stay alive.

There’s a growing body of research exploring how bone regeneration might be enhanced as we age. Some of it focuses on pharmacological ways to stimulate osteoblast activity or block osteoclast overactivity, like the bisphosphonate drugs or parathyroid hormone analogs now used for osteoporosis. Others look at stem cell therapies that could replenish the aging pool of bone-forming cells. 

But many of the most effective tools we already possess are natural. Regular resistance training, adequate protein intake, and maintaining proper levels of vitamin D and K2 can have profound effects on bone density. The simple act of impact—bones striking the ground, muscles tugging on tendons, joints bearing weight—remains the single most powerful way to keep bones young.

The idea that bone “knows” when it’s being used and responds accordingly is one of nature’s most elegant feedback loops. It means that our skeleton is not a fixed thing but a living organ that senses and adapts to our behavior. 

When we stop moving, bones interpret it as a signal that they’re no longer needed and begin to fade away. When we challenge them, they thicken, harden, and renew themselves. Even in old age, this feedback loop can be reawakened, though the gains are slower and more fragile than in youth.

In the larger metaphor of life, bone regeneration is a quiet but powerful reminder of resilience. Every day, millions of microscopic breaks form in our skeleton, and every day they are healed. It’s a never-ending cycle of destruction and renewal that mirrors our emotional and spiritual lives. The same principle applies: stress and impact, handled well, make us stronger. Avoiding stress entirely—physical or emotional—leads to a kind of decay. Growth comes from the right kind of pressure.

So while supplements and science continue to explore the biochemical angles of bone regeneration, the most profound lesson may be a behavioral one. Move every day. Load your bones. Walk, climb, stretch, lift, push. 

Feel the impact of your feet on the ground, because your bones are listening. They respond to every signal of life you send them, even late into old age. They want to grow. They’re built to grow. But they require our participation—the literal weight of our will—to keep doing it. 

In the end, strong bones are not just the foundation of our physical structure but the embodiment of our relationship with gravity, effort, and resilience itself.

—Thom Hartmann, educator and commentator, is the author of many respected books. Reprinted with permission. To receive new posts you can become a free or paid subscriber of this reader-supported digital publication, The Wisdom School: What it Means to be Human, where all articles are free and available to everyone. Copyright: Thom Hartmann, 2025.

 

 

Hong Yen Chang

Hong Yen Chang: The First Chinese Lawyer in the U.S.

By Fanny Wong, New York

In 1872, thirteen-year-old Hong Yen Chang was sad and excited when he boarded a ship on a twenty-five days journey to the United States. Born in either 1859 or 1860, he had seldom left his village in Heungshan in South China.

He was an exceptional student and was chosen to be one of the first of 30 boys to study in the United States. The plan of the Chinese government was to educate 120 young Chinese boys, all expenses paid, to acquire technical knowledge from the West. They were known as the Chinese Educational Mission students.

When Hong Yen Chang arrived in bustling San Francisco, he marveled at the six-storied buildings. Heat came out of radiators in the hotel that was not made of mud with paper windows. Water came out of the faucet. Riding the elevator up and down was fun.

Yen Chang noted that the men in San Francisco wore tight pants and form-fitting jackets. He wore maroon robes with blue silk coats and round, small hats. His footwear was a plain padded slipper, whereas the western footwear was laced shoes.

He and the other boys were amazed at the hundreds of people in and out of the San Francisco train depot. They called the trains “fire-cars.” They would eventually ride a train from Sacramento, California, all the way across America, to New England.

The Chinese Education Mission found foster families for the boys, and made arrangements with schools. The curiosity of the town citizens was not always comfortable for Yen Cheng. At first, he laughed it off, but then he was chased by American kids/youth. And the ogling by adults made him conscious of his queue.

The Mission moved to Hartford, Connecticut, where the Chinese had a supportive community. Foster families made great efforts in teaching the youngsters language and customs. The Mission allowed the boys to wear Western clothes, and to tuck their queues beneath their jackets. (During the Qing Dynasty from 1644 to 1911, by decree Chinese men grew their hair long and braided it into a queue.) In their new outfits, the boys looked less like foreigners.

Yen Chang picked up English at a fast pace. He soon learned that speed, strength and dexterity were desirable in America, whereas these qualities were deemed inappropriate for scholars in China.   

Exercise, and a rich diet of protein and carbohydrates did wonders for the boys’ health. (In China, most of them ate mainly rice, with an occasional piece of chicken, if they were lucky). Soon, they were strong enough to play team sports with American youth. They had uniforms and tucked their queues underneath their caps when they played baseball. They took to football as well.

Studying hard was the boys’ primary duty. Yen Chang, like the others, ranked at the top of his classes. Although he was encouraged to fit in, the Mission was against Americanization of the boys. He was required to study Chinese for at least an hour each day. Every three months, the boys spent two weeks at the Mission’s headquarters to receive instruction in their native language and literature.

The boys adjusted socially as well. They attended dances and receptions and were sought out by girls to be their dancing partner. But they were constantly reminded they were to be standard bearers of a new China. Their purpose in life was to bring technical skills to their country.

Meanwhile, there was concern in the Chinese Royal Court that these boys were susceptible to foreign influences, and were immersed in the Western culture. So the mission was closed even when there were over 60 Chinese students still enrolled at Yale, M.I.T, Columbia, Harvard and other technical schools. Of these, only two received their degrees before the Mission was recalled. The others were just beginning their technical training.

In August 1881, Yen Chang was among the first group of 22 boys to leave Hartford. A train took them to San Francisco, and he boarded a ship back to China. He was now 22 years old, and he was determined that he’d return to America as soon as possible to resume his studies.  

Upon his return to China, after a brief reunion with his mother, the government enrolled him in the naval school in Tientsin. He was not happy with the monotony of the school. He was used to Western training and attitude and he found the old style of the officers stifling. He obtained a release and was free to plan his future.

His brother was a merchant in Honolulu, Hawaii. With his small savings and the help of friends, he departed from the port city of Shanghai for Hawaii in 1882. There, he worked in a law office for a year. But his ambition was to become better educated in law.

In 1883, he managed to enroll at the Columbia Law School and received a law degree three years later at the age of 27. A newspaper reported that his “abilities in legal investigation” were among the finest in his class. By then had cut off his queue, having decided that he’d not be going back to China. 

The 1882 Chinese Exclusion Act dashed his ambition and hope of being admitted to the New York Bar along with his classmates. Citizenship was required, and he was not a citizen. So, in 1887, he reapplied to the bar after a New York judge issued him a naturalization certificate that granted him citizenship. He became the only Chinese lawyer in the United States.  

Still, he faced more barriers when he applied for admission to the bar in California. He presented his New York law license along with his certificate of naturalization to the California State Bar. But it rejected his application based on the 1882 Chinese Exclusion Act, a law passed by Congress that prohibited the naturalization of Chinese persons. The California Constitutional Convention in 1879, in the midst of anti-Chinese sentiment, had further restricted the rights of Chinese residents.

Chang Hon Yen. Photo by unknown.       Ah Tye Family Website, Retrieved on 2012-02-21, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org

With diligence and persistence, Yen Chang decided against appealing the decision and went on to become an advisor at the Chinese Consulate in San Francisco and later became a banker. He married Charlotte Ah Tye in 1897. 

He eventually served as the Chinese consul in Vancouver and first secretary at the Chinese Delegation in Washington. His last position, before his death from a heart attack in 1926, was the director of Chinese naval students in Berkeley, California.

The denial of admission to Yen Chang remained as a published opinion of the California Supreme Court. But notable changes have been made since then. In 1972, it held that exclusion of non-citizens violated the equal protection clauses of the state and federal constitutions. In 1973, the U.S. Supreme Court followed suit.

In 2015, the California Supreme Court, posthumously and unanimously, granted Yen Chang as an attorney and counselor at law in all courts in the state of California. It also acknowledged that the discriminatory exclusion Yen Chang suffered was wrongful. 

       When Yen Chang left China at age thirteen, he could not have foreseen that he’d become a pioneer for a more inclusive legal profession in the United States.

Author’s Note:
I learned about the boys who went to Yale from the book, “My Life in China and America” by Yung Wing, one of the Yale boys. Further research found the book, “Bury My Bones in America” by Lani Ah Tye Parkas. I read an excerpt about Yen Chang and saw the historical photos of his. I have always been fascinated by faces and I found his face as a young and middle-aged man impressive. A calm face exuding intelligence and competence. I would like to know him as a friend.

Art by Makayla Liu, age 12, Vancouver, Canada. She adds: “I’ve loved drawing since I was a child, and in the future I hope to work in a field related to drawing or character design.”

Elegy for the Fragile Universe

Elegy for the Fragile Universe

By William Pan, grade 7, Washington.

How will the world end?
Will it end with alien settlers
from another galaxy?

Or will it be our own
war-torn fault, the world’s
sparkling Hawaiian sunsets

and buzzing Chinese streets
melting and emptying
any number of ways? Now

that Earth has warmed
like sand condensing
into a fragile universe

of glass, we are sturdy
yet fragile. We scowl before
we embrace. We pray

between arguments while saving
the world. Will we have to
flee this green haven? Will we

have to ribbon our faith
into the carbonated air? Or
shall we fit another

planet more to our liking?
Is any of this needed
to save us? Will this stop us

from existing, or can we stop
ourselves? Whether the world dies
or not, we must

cherish what we have—
whether the world succumbs
to bots or we continue

to laugh at movies
and jokes with each day

—William Pan, grade 7, Washington. He writes: “I wrote (this poem) because I realized that we need to unite to stop climate change from ruining our world… I have written many poems and short memoirs that explore culture and family. I am drawn to poetry because I can play with language and build imaginative worlds that enable me to explore things I can’t explore in the real world.” William has recently joined us as one of our student interns.”

Scrambled Lessons

Scrambled Lessons

By Yimeng (Nicole) Wang Yu, age 17, P. R. China

I have an estranged relationship with eggs. We aren’t completely cut off from each other—we still cross paths on occasion—but our encounters are awkward, fleeting, and never quite right. At most, I’m allowed to see them once every couple of weeks, and when I do, they always insist on showing up in some strange outfit. Sometimes they’re draped in a heavy coat of soy sauce, other times they’re wrapped in a knitted avocado-green sweater of their own making, smugly nestled against toast. But bare? Never. On the rare occasions they appear unadorned, it feels less like a gift and more like a threat. My stomach churns, my throat tightens, and my face knots itself into lines I don’t consciously form. I try to be polite, because it isn’t every day I get to share a meal with eggs, but honestly—they make me deeply uncomfortable.

And yet, as repulsed as I am now, I’ve probably consumed entire dynasties of chickens in the form of eggs over the past sixteen years. I grew up in a household where protein was fuel, and eggs were regarded as the most reliable gas station. My parents, convinced that my athleticism required a steady supply of scrambled yellow, believed they were doing me a favor. So, for sixteen years, they placed eggs before me every morning. Scrambled, boiled, fried, buried in fried rice, floating in soup—eggs became the guest at all of my meals. 

For years, I wished this unwelcome visitor would finally excuse itself from my breakfasts. I told my parents that eggs made my stomach feel as if it were gnawing on itself from within. My complaints, however, were dismissed as excuses and childish exaggerations. “You’ll get used to it,” my mom would say. “It’s good for you,” my dad would add. And so I swallowed my objections along with the eggs, because, after all, parents must know best. Didn’t they always?

Until last year.

After a lifetime of groans, gags, and grimaces, my mom finally relented and scheduled a food intolerance test. We waited one long week. When the results arrived, it felt as though the SAT scores of my digestive system had been released. My mom and I huddled around the phone, tense with anticipation. Then the screen flashed with numbers, and chaos erupted. There was screaming, crying (mostly mine), leaping, refreshing the page again and again as if the result might shift if stared long enough. The report confirmed what my body had been insisting all along: I was intolerant to eggs. Not just mildly intolerant, either—I had obliterated the intolerance scale. The threshold for high sensitivity was 200. I scored 900. Four and a half times the limit. Eggs and I weren’t simply mismatched; we were sworn enemies, cosmically opposed.

In that moment, years of swallowed frustration finally poured out of me. My intuition had been right, and science had finally corroborated it. Turns out I wasn’t a dramatic complainer. At last, my mom believed me. I was vindicated.

But looking back, I realize those mornings of forced eggs were not acts of cruelty but of love—misguided, perhaps, but love nonetheless. My parents weren’t trying to torture me; they were trying to keep me healthy in the way they knew best. Only now, with hindsight, can I see how much care went into those breakfasts. At the time, I couldn’t imagine it. I just assumed that because my parents insisted, they must be right, and because I was a child, I must be wrong.

It reminds me of the way I thought about growing up in general. As a child, I carried this foreign but persistent belief that everything would improve as I got older. I thought the world itself would change with me—that kindness and fairness were waiting just beyond the next birthday. My greatest problem then was the cafeteria bully, and even that seemed temporary, destined to dissolve once we were all old enough to know better. In my imagination, adulthood was a yet-to-be-discovered place where everyone made good decisions, where people were kinder, wiser, gentler—because they were grown.

Of course, the reality was never that simple. Growing older didn’t fix the world; it merely sharpened my vision to see it more clearly. Eggs did not suddenly stop making me sick when I turned sixteen—it took years of paying attention to myself, of insisting on what I felt, before anyone else would listen. Adulthood did not sanctify those around me—it simply gave me the ability to recognize their complexity, their contradictions, and, sometimes, their well-intentioned mistakes.

In that sense, perhaps I was not entirely wrong as a child. The world did get better—not because it grew kinder, but because I learned how to navigate it. I learned to trust my body when it screamed at me. I learned that being believed is not automatic, even by those who love you most, but that persistence matters. And I learned that the very things that cause you pain can, years later, soften into strangely tender memories.

So yes, eggs and I remain estranged. I avoid them, and I live a happier life because of it. But I can’t quite bring myself to hate eggs. They’re a part of my story, a relic of mornings at the kitchen table with my parents, who—despite their misplaced faith in scrambled yolks—were only ever trying to love me in the way they knew how. And maybe that’s what growing up really is: not escaping discomfort, but learning to hold it alongside love, until the bitterness—or the grossness—tastes almost sweet.

—Yimeng (Nicole) Wang Yu is a 17-year-old junior at Shanghai American School, P.R. China. She grew up in Spain and now lives in China, and she speaks, reads, and writes in English, Chinese, Spanish, and French. When she isn’t writing, she can be found on the basketball court, blasting music through her AirPods, or noticing the small, everyday details that might inspire her next piece—sometimes all at once.

The Little Princess and the Colorful Butterflies

The Little Princess and the Colorful Butterflies

By Diponkar Chanda, Ontario, Canada

No one remembered the name of the kingdom anymore, but it did exist, a long ago!

Far, far away, nestled close to a forest, there was a tiny village, and it was the seat of this kingdom. There was a palace as well; but not like the ones in our big cities.

This palace was very different. Its walls were made of straw and clay, it had a thatched roof, and it stood gently beneath the sky, like a well-kept secret.

In this palace lived a little princess with her ancient grandmother.

One sunny morning in spring, when a sweet breeze was blowing, birds were chirping joyfully, and flowers bloomed in every corner of the yard, the little princess woke up.

She rubbed her eyes, looked out the window, and noticed something—their little walls didn’t seem as colorful as the world outside.

The trees wore fresh green dresses. The flowers in the meadows sparkled with red, yellow, pink, and purple. Even the butterflies danced in colors—too bright and too many to name them here!

Pale Swallowtail Butterfly. Photo by Herb Everett, Oregon.

Monarch Butterfly. Photo by Ted Rose, Indiana.

The princess longed to bring those colors into their home, their palace.

And she knew, like everyone else in the kingdom, that the true owners of all the colors were those beautiful butterflies.

So, the little princess wanted to catch one. But she was far too little.

Art by Makayla Liu, age 12, Vancouver, Canada.

No one else was home, so she turned to her granny. Now, her granny was like eighty or a hundred years old, or maybe even more. Nobody really knew how old she was. She was the oldest person in the whole kingdom. And, she was certainly far too old to run after those butterflies!

What could they do?

The old woman thought for a moment. Then she searched the hut carefully—every corner, every pouch, every pot.

Finally, she found something she was searching for, a little fistful of sunflower seeds. She smiled.

Granny stepped outside into the wide, sleepy yard. With her slow, gentle feet, she planted the seeds in tidy rows and began to care for them. She watered them every day, with all the love in her heart.

Days passed. Little by little, green shoots appeared. Then leaves. Then came tall, strong stems.

And then one morning, a thousand sunflowers bloomed across the yard—each one like a small sun, shining with golden joy.

Granny didn’t need to chase butterflies anymore.

The butterflies came to them—fluttering, dancing, and painting the air with their beautiful colors.

And you know what?

They shared their colors generously. And from then, true beauty arouse on the boundless canvas of nature—born from careful sharing.

And the little palace also sparkled with butterfly colors—reds, oranges, blues, and purples that no brush could ever copy.

Not just the tiny palace, but also the little princess herself sparkled with those attractive colors.

Her smile shone with every color of the butterflies.

And from that day on, little princess learned that true beauty grows many-fold when we share it with everyone, with profound care.

Diponkar Chanda is an emerging writer based in greater Toronto area of Canada. Originally from Bangladesh, he writes stories and poetry that bridge cultures, languages, and imagination. English is not his first language, and he brings the rhythm and depth of his native Bangla (also known as the Bengali) language into his storytelling.

Art by Makayla Liu, age 12, Vancouver, Canada. She adds: “I’ve loved drawing since I was a child, and in the future I hope to work in a field related to drawing or character design.”

Stuffed

Stuffed

By Claire Chen, age 11, New Jersey.

Stuffed, stuffed, the house is stuffed
With stuffed toys that need to be thrown out
A waste of space
I am told to get rid of them!

But when I look around
Memories abound
First, the dozens of stuffed Pokemon
Evoke memories of family trips to Japan
I cradle an Eevee, a treasured prize won
With bated breath at a claw machine in Tokyo
I squeeze Lapras, the comforting pillow I hugged
On the 18-hour flight to visit family
I can almost still hear my brother’s high-pitched shrieks
During our made-up game of Pokemon Dodgeball
Can I let them go?

Next, the stuffed shaved ice from Singapore
Its name—Ice Kachang* —reminds me
Of Singlish and its foreign yet endearing sounds
English, Mandarin, Hokkien**, and Malay smashed
Into one bizarre hodgepodge
Intelligible only to insiders
Like Singlish, I am a mash
Of American and Asian
Do others understand me?

Then, a stuffed chocolate bar
A souvenir from Hershey
During my grandmother’s first and last visit
Before the chemotherapy failed
The only stuffed toy she ever bought for me
Mum says Grandma never bought her stuffed toys
But that time, she got one for me
Isn’t it a souvenir of her?

Stuffed, stuffed, my mind is stuffed
Stuffed with memories I want to keep in
Precious treasures
That only I hold in my heart

Notes:
*Kachang is the Malay word for nuts
**Hokkien is a Southern Chinese dialect

By Claire Chen, age 11, New Jersey. She adds: “My parents were born in Singapore but I was born in America. My family visits Singapore or Japan nearly every year because we have family in those countries. I speak and write both English and Mandarin, but it takes a lot of time and effort to learn Mandarin in America and I find it very difficult. My mother wanted me to learn Mandarin so I could understand her culture better. However, when we visit Singapore, they do not often speak Mandarin. They speak a version of English that they call “Singlish.” It is a mixture of several local languages, mainly Mandarin, Hokkien (a Southern Chinese dialect), Malay, and English. Singlish can be quite confusing for me—something I mention in my poem.”
“I was inspired to write this poem, titled Stuffed, because I have a lot of stuffed toys and my mum often talks about getting rid of them to reduce clutter in the house. But these items all have histories and meaning to me.”