Inflammaging - The Fire Within

Inflammaging sounds like a punk band for middle-aged guys in compression socks, but it’s actually the biological version of a slow-motion house fire. It’s what happens when your immune system can’t tell the difference between “let’s heal this wound” and “let’s burn the house down.” It’s not the kind of inflammation that swells your ankle after a bad run. It’s quieter, meaner, and sticks around for years, slowly roasting you from the inside while your body forgets how to turn the flames off.

I live with psoriatic arthritis, which means I’ve been on the front lines of this nonsense for years. My immune system, bless its confused little heart, sometimes treats my joints like an invading army. It’s like having a bodyguard who gets drunk and starts punching everyone, including me. Some mornings, my knees feel like they’ve been filled with gravel. My fingers don’t want to close around a coffee cup. But even on those days, I train. I run. I move. Because if you stop moving, you rust. And trust me, rust hurts worse.

Here’s the twisted part: inflammaging isn’t some fancy scientific curveball. It’s the price tag for a lifetime of bad habits. The stress, the lack of sleep, the processed food, the booze, the too-many nights staring at a glowing screen instead of going to bed. It’s the bill coming due for the way most of us have lived. Your immune system gets tired. It stops differentiating between enemies and bystanders. Instead of saving its energy for real threats, it wages small wars against your joints, your arteries, your brain. The result is chronic, low-level inflammation that erodes everything from muscle mass to memory.

When you live with inflammation, you start reading your body like a map of old scars. I can tell when I’ve overtrained because my fingers ache two days later. If I skip sleep, my knees throb like they’re warning me. Fatigue shows up out of nowhere, like someone hit the dimmer switch on my energy. But I’ve learned how to work with it. You don’t win against inflammation by brute force. You outthink it. You outlast it.

Let’s start with food. I used to think “anti-inflammatory diet” meant eating like a sad monk with a celery stick. But it’s simpler than that. Eat real food. If it grew in the ground or had a mother, you’re probably safe. The more it comes in a box, bag, or with a barcode, the more likely it’s stoking the fire. When I cut out sugar bombs, refined carbs, and most processed junk, things changed. Slowly, sure. But they changed. Lean protein, fish, olive oil, fruits, and vegetables. Nothing magical, just the stuff your grandmother told you to eat before kale got its PR team.

Exercise helps, too, but not in the “go big or go home” kind of way. That's the mindset, that’s how people my age end up with more ice packs than sneakers. Consistency beats intensity. Some days I run. Some days I walk. Most days it’s a combination of the two. Some days I stretch and call it a win. The goal isn’t perfection. The goal is momentum. Move often enough and your body remembers what it’s supposed to do. Stop, and it forgets fast. Motion keeps the gears from locking up completely.

Sleep might be the most powerful anti-inflammatory tool we ignore. When I shortchange my sleep, my joints remind me who’s boss. Cortisol shoots up, recovery tanks, everything hurts. So, I treat sleep like a job. No phones in bed. The room is dark and cool. No scrolling through social media until my eyes burn. When I sleep right, I wake up feeling like a person again instead of a worn-out machine.

And then there’s stress. That invisible gasoline that keeps the fire burning. You can’t avoid it, not unless you plan to live in a cave with no Wi-Fi. But you can manage it. Chronic stress floods your body with cortisol, keeping inflammation humming along. So, I do what I can. Some meditation. Some music. Some self-deprecating humor. I’ve found that laughter—especially the kind that starts from disbelief at how ridiculous life can be—is medicine in itself.

People sometimes ask how I train for races with an autoimmune condition. The answer is boring: planning. I schedule recovery like I schedule workouts. I don’t “push through” pain; I work around it. I ice, stretch, and take supplements that actually have science behind them. Fish oil, vitamin D. Nothing trendy. Just tools to keep the flames low. The trick isn’t to find a magic bullet. It’s to stay consistent with the unglamorous stuff.

And here’s the mental side of it: inflammation doesn’t just mess with your body. It messes with your head. Chronic pain and fatigue have a way of making you question your sanity. It wears you down emotionally. Some days you’ll want to give up. But you can’t. You push back, even if it’s with small things. You joke about it. You talk about it. You move anyway. You take away its power one step at a time.

The weirdest thing is how people react when they see you taking care of yourself. Start eating better, training smart, getting rest, and someone will tell you you’re overreacting. “You’re getting old, deal with it,” they’ll say. Yeah, well, I am dealing with it. I’m just not surrendering to it. There’s a big difference between aging gracefully and slowly decomposing while pretending it’s fine.

The good news is that inflammaging isn’t inevitable. You can’t erase every scar, but you can stop adding new ones. Every good choice you make—every decent meal, walk, stretch, or night of sleep—turns the volume down on the noise inside your body. You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to show up for yourself consistently. The fire never completely goes out, but you can control how hot it burns.

And no, I’m not selling you a cleanse, a powder, or some influencer’s miracle cure. You can’t biohack your way out of bad habits. The basics still matter. Move your body. Eat real food. Sleep like you mean it. Manage your stress. Get outside. Laugh, even if it’s bitter laughter some days. Then do it again tomorrow. That’s the closest thing to a cure anyone’s ever found.

There are still days when I lose the battle. My joints swell. My energy crashes. I get pissed off. But I know it’s temporary. Because inflammation thrives on despair. It loves it when you stop trying. When you sit too long, eat garbage, and stop caring. But the moment you move, even a little, it loses ground.

Aging isn’t a death sentence. It’s a negotiation. You pay the bill for how you’ve lived, and inflammation is just one of the collectors. You can’t ignore it, but you don’t have to hand over everything either. You can haggle. You can say, “I’ll give you a few creaky joints, but you’re not getting my energy or my spirit.”

Inflammaging is the body’s version of telling you to knock it off. It’s the whisper that became a shout. Your body’s been sending warnings for years. Now it’s banging on the door. It’s saying, “Stop pouring whiskey on the fire. Start pouring water.” Listen to it. Make peace with it. Learn to work within your limits instead of pretending you don’t have any.

Train smart. Eat like you respect yourself. Sleep like it’s medicine. Keep your humor. Laugh at the absurdity of it all. Because the moment you can laugh, the moment you can shrug and say, “Yeah, my joints hurt but I’m still out here,” you take back control.

Inflammaging might be part of getting older, but it doesn’t have to define it. You can age loud, strong, and moving. You can age with your middle finger up to the idea that it’s all downhill. Lace up your shoes. Take a deep breath. Keep going. Your immune system might be confused, but you don’t have to be.