I spent the better part of eight months staring at joint supplement labels so you don’t have to. Not because I planned to — my knees just decided, somewhere around my forty-second birthday, that they were going to narrate every squat, every lunge, and every early-morning stair descent with a symphony of snaps and crackles. After two decades of track training, coaching, and a heptathlon career that pushed my body to its absolute limits, my joints were sending me a very clear message: we need support. What started as a personal mission to quiet my own creaky knees turned into…
