Chapter 1
When Strength Meets Stillness: A Librarian's Battle with Tourette's
In the beautiful glass library of Salt Lake City, a 6'7", 260-pound librarian with extreme Tourette's Syndrome navigates a world that often doesn't understand his condition. Josh Hanagarne isn't your typical librarian - between helping patrons find books on knitting lingerie and dealing with sleeping homeless people, he bends horseshoes during lunch breaks and trains to deadlift 600 pounds. His memoir "The World's Strongest Librarian" has captivated readers across the spectrum, from fitness enthusiasts to those battling neurological conditions, earning praise from Stephen King who encouraged Hanagarne to write after reading his blog. The book chronicles his journey through faith, family, and finding control in a body determined to betray him - all while working in what should be the quietest place on earth. As Hanagarne puts it, libraries have shaped every thread of his life, teaching him that while not all questions have answers, the freedom to ask without judgment is perhaps the greatest gift of all.
Chapter 2
The Sacred Space of Childhood Curiosity
Libraries were my sanctuary from the earliest age. My mother carried me into my first library in Moab, Utah, before I could even read, introducing me to the ordered world of books that would become my lifelong passion. Our home buzzed with creativity - my beautiful, intelligent mother constantly invented games and pranks that kept our household full of laughter, while my father, who attributed everything about himself to his one-quarter Navajo heritage, dreamed we'd all live together in Shiprock someday.
Library trips became our daily ritual. My reading advanced quickly from "The Cat in the Hat" to Encyclopedia Brown, but true literary mania struck when we brought home "Charlotte's Web." I fell so deeply in love with the character Fern that my mother caught me kissing her picture in the book. In kindergarten, I carried that treasured volume in my crayon box and hosted impromptu "book clubs" with inflatable alphabet characters when my mother was late picking me up.
My childhood idyll began changing during a first-grade Thanksgiving play. Cast as a tree rather than my desired role of Wilbur the pig, I tried to look "arboreal" during rehearsals. But something strange happened during the performance - my face began contorting with involuntary movements that worsened throughout the show. I wasn't even aware of these tics until my concerned parents started observing me closely at home.
When they demonstrated what I was doing - curling my upper lip to touch my nose, blinking rapidly, jerking my head, stretching my neck like a turtle - I had no idea I'd been doing anything unusual. My mother offered to buy me a book if I could stop for five minutes, but I couldn't last even one minute. "It feels weird if I don't do it," I explained.
My father, hearing from a coworker about similar symptoms, suggested I might have Tourette Syndrome. While they investigated further, Dad reframed my condition positively, comparing me to sharks that must keep moving to breathe: "Sharks are the toughest things ever! A shark can punch the whole world in the face and then just swim away. That's going to be you."
My parents wisely kept their worries to themselves, letting me remain a carefree kid. They didn't immediately take me to doctors, whom my father deeply distrusted after previous misdiagnoses. Meanwhile, my tics caused physical problems - once sending me face-first into a brick wall during tag when violent head-shaking altered my running trajectory.
Through it all, my mother maintained her cocoon of optimism, seeing beauty in all things, while my father supported me with unwavering encouragement. For now, safe in my mother's protective embrace, whatever challenges awaited could wait. I was still just a curious child, devouring books and exploring the world through stories.
Chapter 3
The Diagnosis and the Deity
At the neurology clinic at the University of Utah, I finally got my answer. After a brief examination, the red-haired doctor delivered his verdict: "This is Tourette Syndrome." Just like that, I had a thing and the thing had a name. When I asked "So what now?" - the only question I really cared about - the doctor recommended against medication unless the situation became unmanageable, explaining that antipsychotics and blood pressure medications sometimes helped but came with side effects that might not be worth it if my symptoms were tolerable.
Back at school, despite vowing not to tell anyone, I told everyone I could. "I just found out I have Tourette Syndrome," I announced to classmates, teachers, and friends at lunch. Nobody had much to say besides "Oh, man, that sucks," since they knew even less about it than I did.
When the tics returned with such intensity that I could barely catch my breath, I tried to stay home from school. My mom refused: "You're not even deciding. You're letting this thing decide for you. Don't." This was when I first saw Tourette's as a separate being - a parasite I was in relationship with. I named her Misty, short for "Miss T."
My Tourette's feels like needing to sneeze. There's an itch that builds until you let it out. You could hold it in, but there's no relief if you stifle it - it feels wrong. The pressure builds in whatever body part wants to tic - my eyes if I want to blink, my shoulders if I want to jerk them, my throat if I need to make noise. I can hold tics in with effort, but there's a price - I must release a specific intensity of tics each day, either as many small ones or as one explosive burst when I'm finally alone.
As I grew older, questions about faith and God began to intertwine with my condition. In the Mormon Church, I'd been taught that prayers were answered through "burning in the bosom" or feelings of clarity, but my emotions were easily influenced by everything. I felt similar stirrings watching The Land Before Time, Star Wars, or even when Mom bought Pop-Tarts. Prayer never gave me that undeniable divine sensation.
In fifth grade, my sanctuary was the bookmobile, where I discovered Stephen King's "The Tommyknockers." Thus began a partnership: King wrote gigantic books, and I'd drown in them until finished. When my mother intercepted "Misery" and explained why it wasn't appropriate for a fifth-grader, I devised a brilliant plan, switching dust jackets between King's "It" and Piers Anthony's "The Color of Her Panties." But I hadn't considered that a mother opposed to mayhem might also object to a book about underwear.
One particularly difficult day, after being mocked by a classmate for my tics, I went home, hid in the family van, and whispered, "I hate God. I love the Devil." I waited to be struck down, but nothing happened. The silence didn't disturb or encourage me - it made me wonder. Was this a test? Had I damned myself? Was Someone waiting to see if I'd say it again? I didn't.
Silence and stillness were rare in my life - only when I slept, when I read, and apparently when I blasphemed. By uttering those words, I'd reached for limits and found nothing there. This would be the first of many tests of faith in my journey with Tourette's.
Chapter 4
Mission Impossible: Faith Under Fire
At sixteen, two things kept getting in the way of my carnal desires: God and Tourette's. For Mormon boys, the sixteenth birthday is a milestone - it meant I could finally date. Though "getting some" for a young Mormon boy was modest by most standards - perhaps just a peck on the cheek or someone to breathe hot air on your neck in a car late at night.
The primary goal for a Mormon is to marry a worthy spouse in the temple as part of the Plan of Salvation. Finding a spouse was key to attaining celestial exaltation - the highest of the three tiers in Mormon Heaven. But how would I ever find someone willing to marry a guy with worsening Tourette's?
In 1994, Nirvana's album Nevermind changed everything for me. The howling, unintelligible lyrics and screaming feedback felt like they were written for me - not because I was angry or disenfranchised, but because I felt more aggressive. I started playing electric guitar and discovered something miraculous - when I played that fierce guitar, my tics vanished. I could practice for eight hours straight and banish Misty.
When I met Jennie, my first serious girlfriend, I worried about how she would handle my Tourette's. One night while watching TV, I yelped and bit my tongue. Instead of kissing it better, Jennie smiled, took off her shoe and said, "Here, you should bite down on this." Initially angry, I realized she wasn't coddling me - she saw my Tourette's as more hassle than burden. Her acceptance helped ease my anxiety.
Our relationship deepened despite church teachings against "pairing off." When I asked when we should get married, Jennie insisted she would only marry me after I returned from my mission - the two-year service expected of 19-year-old Mormon men. I hadn't fully committed to going, but avoiding a mission would trigger gossip and disapproval from both our families. Worthy young men served missions; unworthy ones stayed home.
One night alone in Idaho, overwhelmed by doubt and panic about my ability to serve with Tourette's, I randomly opened my Scriptures to a verse about crying unto God in your heart. For the first time, I prayed not out of routine but genuine need: "I need to know... I don't know what to do." Suddenly, the storm outside stopped, and I felt an inexplicable calm and clarity. This experience convinced me to submit my mission papers.
In December, my mission call arrived: I would serve in the Washington DC North Mission, teaching in Spanish, departing in just one month. At the Missionary Training Center in Provo, Utah, I received my companion, Elder Sansom, and our schedule: wake at six, breakfast at seven, classes at eight. We drilled Spanish and practiced the six discussions that formed our teaching material.
In Washington DC, my confidence faltered. The city felt mean, crowded, with faces showing anger and weariness. My trainer, Elder Santiago, boldly approached strangers while I struggled with rejection. People avoided us, made excuses, or told us to "fuck off" - triggering my verbal tics.
After six months, I'd helped baptize only two teenagers who never returned to church. Then my Tourette's suddenly worsened - I punched myself in the face on the street, shocking both me and my companion Elder Miller. I started medication that made me sleepy but didn't help. Eventually, the violent tics stabilized to just loud vocalizations.
My condition deteriorated over the next two months. I lost weight, bit my cheeks until they bled, and struggled with constant, brutal tics. On my birthday, December 1, I decided I couldn't continue. Meeting with President Graff, I asked if I'd done enough. He assured me I'd "served with honor" and done all I could. When I returned to Nevada, my family met me at the airport. My dad relayed President Graff's message that I "did enough," while my mom promised we'd get help but warned, "You don't get to give up."
Chapter 5
Finding Strength in Unexpected Places
Back home after my mission, my mother was desperate to find help for my worsening Tourette's. She dragged me to see Dr. H, a chiropractor who claimed to be "so much more." Despite my skepticism about his lemon "potions" and healing claims, I reluctantly entered his office, greeted by wind chimes, pan flutes, and incense. Dr. H emerged looking like Randall Flagg from Stephen King's The Stand - jeans, boots, denim jacket, and a long gray ponytail.
His miracle cure involved imagining a "perfect, perfect circle" for seventeen seconds, claiming this would heal me just as Joseph Smith stayed still to see God. When I failed at fourteen seconds, he tested my body with bottles of minerals, having me "resist" as he pulled my arm to determine which supplements I needed. Mom bought copper and zinc water, but admitted in the parking lot, "That was so stupid." Dr. H eventually went to prison for fraudulent cancer cures.
My father, seeing me depressed and medication-resistant, dragged me to the gym. "Confident people do stuff," he told me. "You're making our couch sag." At the gym, he had me lift weights until I couldn't anymore, then move to lighter ones. Surprisingly, I realized I hadn't thought about my tics for nearly an hour. Dad explained that building bigger shoulders "changes the way you walk" - like wearing a cape. I started going daily, filling a notebook with my progress. The physical challenge made my symptoms seem less significant outside the gym.
At Rick's College, my Tourette's worsened to the point where I couldn't control my tics even when absorbed in studying Greek. My mom suggested an experimental treatment: Botox injections in my vocal cords. Desperate, I agreed. The procedure was uncomfortable but bearable. Within days, my voice faded to a whisper. While I could no longer scream in public, my body still demanded its "daily intensity quota" of tics, resulting in violent physical movements instead of vocal outbursts.
During this time, I met Janette, who would become my wife. After winning a card game bet, I kissed her for the first time, instantly transforming our relationship. Despite my lingering fears about Tourette's - both for myself and our potential children - Janette reassured me: "When I'm with you and things are bad with your tics, it's hard... But it's not nearly as bad as not being with you." Two weeks later, we married in the Bountiful Mormon temple, sealed "for time and all eternity."
Our honeymoon in Moab was blissful, but real life soon intruded. We discovered we couldn't have biological children, a devastating blow. Meanwhile, I realized I needed a job that would challenge me properly. In a bold move, I applied at the public library, the "quietest building" I knew, deliberately testing my ability to control my Tourette's in a challenging environment. Despite my tics disrupting the silence, I got hired checking in books and helping patrons.
Chapter 6
The Heartbreak and Joy of Becoming a Father
The adoption process proved to be an emotional rollercoaster. After months of paperwork, home studies, and interviews, we faced a devastating rejection. When we asked for specifics about the "red flags" in our application, the agency director was vague and condescending, suggesting we "have work to do" before being suitable candidates. He criticized me for pursuing graduate school after Janette supported me through my education, then handed the refund check directly to Janette, saying, "I understand that you handle the finances." The agency worker even suggested Janette return alone to "tell her side of the story," implying I might be preventing her from speaking freely.
After the rejection, Janette blamed herself for honestly admitting in her interview that their marriage wasn't always perfect. I reassured her we were right to be truthful. My parents reacted differently to the news - my mother offered quiet support while my father threatened to confront his bishop in outrage.
Despite this setback, I completed my degree after ten years of struggle, graduating with my family's support. Janette and I tried to make peace with our childless future, listing the benefits of not having children. Then unexpectedly, Janette became pregnant. Having experienced previous miscarriages, we remained cautious, especially since Janette's miscarriages had occurred in October.
This time, the October ultrasound revealed a healthy baby boy. My immediate thought when seeing the baby move was "That was a tic," revealing my fear of passing on Tourette's. When Max was born, I experienced a profound transformation: "Nothing before that moment when the nurse placed that pointy-headed little boy in my arms felt real." At Max's church blessing, I prayed that my son would have "a mind more agile than mine" and the courage to be himself. Most significantly, I discovered that holding Max created another sanctuary where "Misty" (my Tourette's) couldn't intrude - I could sit perfectly still for hours watching my son sleep.
The library presented daily challenges beyond book lending - from parents leaving children unsupervised for entire days to navigating potential gang activity. Security guards faced physical dangers, including being bitten or having scalding coffee thrown at them, while librarians had to handle patrons who used offensive language or viewed pornography on public computers. The "public" in public library means serving everyone, including those with mental illness or disruptive behaviors.
Despite budget cuts threatening libraries, I saw their essential value through my son Max's eyes. When Max exclaimed "And I can take any book, Daddy!" with excitement, I recognized the same wonder I felt as a child. During visits with Max, I watched my son collect books in a basket, sometimes playing word games with book covers. When Josh lifted a heavy garden stone and Max mimicked him with a smaller one, I was moved by how my son learned by watching me, even as a Tourette's tic crashed my hand into my head, prompting Max's concerned embrace.
Chapter 7
The Breakthrough: Neuroplasticity and Breath
I desperately trained to keep Misty at bay, pushing myself to exhaustion with kettlebells in our backyard and the library's fitness room. In 2009, I sold my treasured Oxford Mark Twain collection to attend the Russian Kettlebell Challenge certification. My blog, "World's Strongest Librarian," began as a training log but evolved into discussions about books, Tourette's, and life. As I wrote about my condition, people with Tourette's or their families reached out with heartbreaking messages: "We don't know what to do," "Nobody understands me," "I hate myself." I had no answers, but someone else might - Adam T. Glass, the strange, intense man I'd arranged to train with in Minot, North Dakota.
Adam was unlike anyone I'd ever met - intense, predatory, brilliant. At his gym, Unbreakable Fitness, he had me perform bizarre movements - drawing circles with my heel, wiggling my jaw, walking on the balls of my feet - then pointed to a ninety-seven-pound kettlebell: "Now press it. Quit thinking. You won't die, I promise." I pressed it with less effort than any press I'd ever done. When I asked what happened, Adam simply said, "The same thing that will happen with your tics. It's fun to be smart. You're lucky you've got me."
After five days of training and philosophical discussions, Adam gave me a mission: "Pick a movement, preferably one that you do constantly... and improve it. Make it easier. Make it more efficient. Test it often. See what happens with your tics."
Back home, I contemplated which movement to improve. After listing everything from kettlebell exercises to walking to everyday actions like eating and blinking, I kept returning to "breathing." I realized breathing was common to all the activities when my tics were minimal: talking, playing guitar, sleeping, reading, writing. What if breathing was the key?
In the library's fitness room, I experimented with deeper, slower breaths. A four-second inhalation felt remarkably good - more than double my typical breath length. I continued practicing in the library restrooms, using the motion-sensor lights as feedback on my stillness. With each successful deep breath, I felt physical relief and release. I realized every tic interrupted my breathing, creating constant distress I'd adapted to as normal.
I didn't want to struggle while practicing my breathing. I wanted my body to associate deep breaths with freedom from tic urges, not with the psychogenic urges themselves. In December, two months after my Minot trip, I was ready to attempt sixty seconds of perfect stillness - no gimmicks, no distractions, just breathing. It worked! After more than two decades of twitching frustration, I had a minute all to myself.
As I continued practicing, I discovered more connections. New lighting triggered tics, but entering rooms with closed eyes reduced urges. I could alter tic speeds, sometimes performing them at half-speed to release the urges with less physical strain. By March, two minutes without tics became five, then an hour, then a day, then a month with only mild tics Janette occasionally noticed. I worked at the library, loved my wife, played with my son, read, trained, wrote, and loved my life.
Chapter 8
Faith, Doubt, and Acceptance
While my physical condition improved dramatically, my faith struggles continued. When my mother visited us that summer, she and Max became inseparable playmates. One evening they performed "The Three Billy Goats Gruff" in our backyard sandbox, with Max improvising wildly - having the smallest goat jump over the troll's head and drowning the troll with a bucket of water down a carefully engineered sand channel.
The next day, my mother remarked on my stillness, calling it "such a blessing." On Sunday, we left church early, and in the car, I finally confessed what she already knew: "Mom, I'm just not getting anything out of it anymore. It's not for me. I'm sorry."
Instead of the rebuke I'd feared, she responded with surprising acceptance: "It doesn't make me happy, you know that. It breaks my heart. But I'm not mad. You're making me feel like the grandma from Flowers in the Attic. What did you think I was going to say? 'Go cut me a switch'?" She explained that while she was heartbroken, she understood people must make their own choices. "If you've really lost your testimony, it breaks my heart. But you're my son and whatever happens, we'll all still love you and that won't change."
I reflected on how Mormons talk about "losing your testimony" as though faith were something misplaced that could be easily found again. But my experience felt different - not loss but fragmentation. The pieces of my faith - memories of spiritual experiences, years of church attendance, family heritage - no longer fit together into a coherent whole.
Later, my mother shared that her favorite thing was when the whole family gathered for holidays, laughing together. I agreed but admitted, "Just because I want us all to be together forever doesn't mean it's possible." She explained her perspective on knowing versus believing, comparing spiritual knowledge to how I know I love Max - something felt rather than proven.
With Janette, our conversations weren't easy. When I shared my doubts, she misinterpreted my thinking aloud as an attempt to persuade her away from faith. "Josh, I won't stop believing for you," she said. I assured her I wasn't asking her to, but neither could I force myself to believe. We agreed to be honest with Max about our different perspectives, allowing him to make his own choices.
What I'll tell Max is that I still believe in core principles: kindness, compassion, service, accountability, honesty, and family. I'll quote Vonnegut: "Man got to sit and wonder, 'Why, why, why?' Man got to tell himself he understand." Most importantly, I'll tell him how lucky I was as a child and how much I love my parents.
Chapter 9
The Legacy of Struggle and Strength
One evening while watching Curious George with Max, I noticed something that froze me mid-tickle: he was blinking excessively. As I watched, his lip curled slightly, the movement becoming more pronounced. When he asked what was wrong, I couldn't bring myself to say anything. I kissed his forehead, retreated to my bedroom, and closed the door.
The next day at work, Misty returned with devastating force after months of absence. She ambushed me in the library, making me drop an armload of books. Throughout my shift, she tormented me relentlessly - pinching my cheeks with my own fingers until they burned, biting my thumb until it bled, curling my toes painfully.
That evening at the park, Max flew a beagle-shaped kite while I watched anxiously for signs of tics. When Janette joined me, I confessed my fears. "I really thought I was done with this," I told her. "Maybe it'll just be today." As we talked, Max abandoned his kite to chase a moth - reminding me of a childhood memory.
When I was four, I'd seen an enormous purple moth with foot-wide wings. I'd dragged my mother outside to see it, but by then it had vanished. Instead of dismissing me, she'd simply asked, "Where do you think it went next?" - the perfect question that sparked my lifelong curiosity. But now that same wondering nature tortured me with anxieties about Max: What if he can't handle school? What if he blames me?
My own tics had erupted worse than ever. New stresses - Max's possible condition, a friend's breast cancer diagnosis, my sister's health challenges - had overwhelmed my coping mechanisms. I tried my exercises, but nothing helped. Each failed attempt increased my stress, creating a vicious cycle.
When my father called, he immediately saw through my excuses for not lifting. "Are you still lifting?" he asked. When I admitted I wasn't doing much anymore because it wasn't helping, he pushed back: "You need to do it. We've all seen it. You've seen it. Now why aren't you doing it?"
"Forget about knowing why and get back at it," my father insisted. "If you're tired of what you're doing, do something else, but do something. Hike up your skirt, sonny."
That night, I saw a Facebook photo of a kilted man preparing to heave a massive weight. On impulse, I Googled "getting started in Highland Games," ordered a kilt, and sent a $25 check to enter the Highland Games in Payson, Utah. For the next two months, I threw everything I could find in my backyard - kettlebells, stones, chains, plates, logs. To my surprise, these explosive movements began to loosen Misty's grip on me.
On competition day, I arrived with Janette and Max at the Scottish Festival. In my first event, "weight for height," I surprised myself by winning. When Max shouted "That's my dad!" from the bleachers, I was determined to do well. For seven hours, I threw with my group, receiving encouragement and tips from everyone, even athletes from higher classes.
During lunch, I noticed Max blinking rapidly. When I asked if he had something in his eye, he said he was fine, and Janette reinforced that I should take him at his word.
In the final event - throwing a 42-pound weight for distance - I struggled at first, even losing my kilt during one attempt. Before my final throw, I caught myself praying: "Oh please oh please help me help me help me." I dropped into a crouch, spun, and threw with a scream that had nothing to do with Misty. As the weight soared and the crowd cheered, I watched its trajectory with outstretched arms, hoping I'd done enough.
The outcome of that throw isn't what matters. What matters is that I was there, competing, living, and showing my son that whatever challenges life presents - whether Tourette's or anything else - we face them head-on. We adapt, we struggle, we find new ways forward. Sometimes we win, sometimes we lose, but we never stop trying. That's the legacy I hope to leave him, whether he inherits my condition or not.
