How to Update Personal Information & Privacy Settings

February 3, 2026 In Uncategorized

The rain in Portland, Oregon, does not simply fall; it inhabits the air, a pervasive, gray mist that seems to seep through the walls of even the most well-insulated apartments. For Michael Reynolds, a thirty-eight-year-old senior software engineer living in the leafy, historic quiet of the Sellwood-Moreland neighborhood, the weather in November 2025 felt less like a meteorological event and more like a physical manifestation of his own internal state. Since the beginning of the year, Michael had been running on a deficit. The project he had just delivered—a massive, legacy-code migration for a silicon-design firm based in Hillsboro—had been a career-defining triumph. It was the kind of work that resulted in substantial bonuses and polite applause at all-hands meetings. But the architectural victory had come at a steep physiological cost. The price was paid in nights that bled into mornings, in takeout containers stacked like leaning towers of Pisa on his kitchen island, and, most severely, in a chronic, gnawing fire located specifically between his fourth and fifth lumbar vertebrae.

Michael was not a man prone to complaint. He subscribed to a stoic, almost utilitarian philosophy: if something is broken, debug it; if it cannot be debugged immediately, patch it and move on. He had spent months telling himself that the stiffness in his lower back was temporary, a mere glitch in the system that would resolve itself once the deployment phase was over. He convinced himself that the mental fog clouding his mornings was just a lack of caffeine, not the onset of genuine burnout. But that denial shattered on a drizzly Friday afternoon. Michael attempted to stand up from his Herman Miller ergonomic chair—a piece of furniture that cost more than his first car—and found that he physically could not straighten his spine. It felt as though an invisible hand had reached into his nervous system and pulled the master switch. A sharp, electric line of pain shot down his right leg, a classic sciatica signal that could no longer be ignored with ibuprofen or mindfulness apps.

Standing there, gripping the edge of his standing desk while the Oregon rain drummed a relentless rhythm against the windowpane, Michael realized that the “patch it and move on” strategy had failed. He didn’t just need a doctor; he needed a system. He needed an architecture for his own recovery that was as robust as the software he built. He needed to stop treating his body like a legacy server and start treating it like a critical infrastructure project. He managed to hobble to the living room, collapsing onto the sofa with his laptop. He navigated to a URL that had been sitting in his bookmarks bar since the summer: https://strongbody.ai. A former colleague named David, a UI designer now living in the sun-drenched hills of San Francisco, had recommended the platform months ago during a Zoom catch-up. David had described it not just as a telehealth site, but as a “command center for biological optimization.” At the time, Michael had rolled his eyes at the Silicon Valley buzzwords. Now, in pain and desperate for a solution that didn’t involve waiting three weeks for a fifteen-minute appointment with a primary care physician who would tell him to “stretch more,” the concept of a command center sounded incredibly appealing.

Michael had created an account back in July but had left it dormant, a shell profile with no real data. Today, he was ready to commit. As the homepage loaded, the interface greeted him with a calming palette of deep slate blues and clinical whites, designed to lower cortisol levels just by looking at it. He moved his cursor to the top right corner of the screen, hovering over his avatar. It was an old photo, a candid shot taken by an ex-girlfriend on the Hawthorne Bridge during one of those rare, miraculous Portland summer days where the mountain is out and the city feels invincible. He clicked the avatar. A sleek dropdown menu cascaded open, presenting him with a series of options. His eyes skipped past the dashboard and landed firmly on “My Account.” He clicked. The page that opened was a masterclass in clean, functional design. The layout was horizontal, featuring a row of distinct tabs: Profile, Security, Payment Methods, Privacy Settings, Notifications, and Connected Services. It was orderly. It was logical. It was exactly what a chaotic mind needed.

He began with the Profile tab. The section labeled “Basic Information” held the dry facts of his existence: “Michael Reynolds,” born June 12, 1987. Gender: Male. Country: United States. Time Zone: Pacific Time (Portland). He stared at his full name. It felt too formal, too much like the name on his mortgage documents or his tax returns. This journey was going to be personal; he wanted to interact with his care team not as a record number, but as a human being. He clicked the “Edit” button next to his name. A small, polite modal window popped up with a security advisory noting that changing a display name required email verification for security purposes. Michael nodded to himself. Good. He appreciated the friction; friction meant security. He typed in the new display name he had been considering: “Mike R.” It was shorter, friendlier. It was the name his friends used. It was the name of the guy who liked hiking in the Columbia River Gorge, not the “Michael Reynolds” who pulled eighty-hour coding weeks. He hit “Continue.” Almost instantly, his phone buzzed on the coffee table. He opened his email client to find a message from the StrongBody Security Bot containing a six-digit One-Time Password. He memorized the sequence—528174—and typed it into the verification field on his laptop. The system processed the request for a fraction of a second before the screen refreshed. “Mike R.” was now live.

He left the avatar photo alone—a reminder of the health he wanted to regain—and scrolled down to “Contact Details.” Here, he needed to do some housekeeping. He had recently switched mobile carriers to get better reception in his home office, so he deleted his old number and carefully entered the new one: +1 503-555-0471. He also decided to bifurcate his digital life. He added a secondary email address, michaelr.work@proton.me. He wanted his health notifications to go to his encrypted ProtonMail account, keeping them separate from the deluge of Jira tickets and marketing spam that clogged his Gmail. Before leaving this section, he checked a box to enable two-factor authentication via this phone number and pressed “Save.” Once again, the system demanded proof. A text message arrived on his iPhone 15 Pro. He unlocked the device using FaceID, noted the code “391672,” and entered it into the browser. A green toast notification appeared at the top of the screen confirming that his contact information was now updated and secured.

Now came the most critical part of the afternoon’s work. Michael clicked on the Privacy Settings tab. In the age of data breaches and algorithmic surveillance, Michael was hyper-aware of his digital footprint. He was about to upload sensitive medical imagery and deeply personal journals. He needed to know exactly who could see what. The Privacy page was divided into four distinct narrative sections, rather than a confusing list of checkboxes. The first section was labeled Profile Visibility. The system offered him a spectrum of openness: Public, Care Team & Connected Experts Only, or Private. Michael didn’t hesitate. He selected Care Team & Connected Experts Only. He wasn’t here to be a social media influencer for back pain; he was here to be treated. His “Personal Care Team” was a curated group of five international experts he had matched with through the platform’s algorithm: Dr. Emily, a rehabilitation specialist based in a top clinic in London; a posture-focused strength coach from California; a stress management psychologist from Toronto; a clinical nutritionist from Melbourne; and a specialized physiotherapist from Munich. He wanted these five people to see him clearly. He needed them to understand the holistic picture. But he wanted the rest of the world—and the platform’s general user base—walled off completely.

The second section, Health Data Sharing, was where the granularity of the system really shone. Michael scrolled down to review the files he had already queued for upload or had previously synced. First was the X-ray of his lumbar spine, a series of four high-resolution JPGs he had digitized from his visit to the urgent care clinic on November 10th. Next was a PDF report generated from his Oura Ring, detailing his sleep architecture—or lack thereof—for October and November. Then there was the link to his “Daily Stress & Pain Journal,” a live Google Doc where he vented his frustrations and tracked his pain levels on a scale of one to ten. Finally, there was a raw video file, an MP4 lasting two minutes and forty-five minutes, shot on his iPhone, showing him attempting to perform a squat and failing due to mobility restrictions. For the sleep tracking report and the stress journal, Michael selected the option to allow all in his Care Team. He reasoned that his nutritionist needed to know about his lack of sleep just as much as the psychologist needed to know about his stress. These were systemic indicators. However, for the X-rays and the humiliating posture assessment video, he chose to allow selected experts only. A sub-menu appeared. He carefully checked the boxes for Dr. Emily, the California trainer, and the Munich physiotherapist. The nutritionist and the psychologist didn’t need to see the literal curvature of his spine or his poor squat form to do their jobs. He pressed “Apply.” The interface flashed a subtle confirmation, locking the permissions into the database.

Michael continued down the page to the Message & Communication Privacy section. This was about boundary setting. As an engineer, he understood the concept of signal-to-noise ratio. He wanted high signal, zero noise. Under the setting for Active Messages, he selected “No one.” He had no interest in cold-outreach from other specialists trying to upsell him on supplements or alternative therapies. If he needed a new specialist, he would find them. Under voice messages, he toggled the switch to “Yes.” This was crucial. Driving in Portland traffic was stressful enough without trying to read text messages. He preferred listening to voice notes from his team while he commuted or while he was lying on his floor mat doing stretches. It felt more personal, more nuanced. Tone of voice conveyed empathy that text often stripped away. He also activated a feature called Auto-translate incoming messages. With a German physiotherapist and an Australian nutritionist, linguistic nuances could sometimes be lost, and he wanted to ensure that if the Munich therapist slipped into complex German medical terminology, the system would bridge the gap instantly. Finally, regarding his Online Status, he set it to “Only to Care Team.” He wanted them to know when he was available for a quick synchronous chat, but he didn’t want to appear “online” to the platform at large.

Before finishing, Michael scrolled to the Data Export & Deletion section. This was his escape hatch. He believed that you didn’t truly own your data unless you could take it with you. He clicked the button labeled “Download my data.” The server churned for a moment, compiling his history. A few seconds later, a 12 MB ZIP file began downloading. It contained everything: the chat logs with his five experts, the service offers he had accepted (including a package of eight virtual physiotherapy sessions he had purchased for $480), his request history, and every piece of health data he had ever provided. When the download finished, Michael dragged the file into a folder on his local drive named “StrongBody – Personal Backup,” which sat inside an encrypted volume on his MacBook Pro. He glanced at the “Request account deletion” link. He didn’t need it today, but reading the fine print—stating that all personal data would be permanently deleted within 30 days if requested—gave him a sense of calm. He wasn’t a prisoner here; he was a customer.

He navigated to the Security tab to apply the final locks. He toggled on the requirement for biometric login on mobile devices. He wanted to ensure that if he ever left his phone at a coffee shop, no one could access his medical records without his FaceID. He then decided to rotate his password. He opened his password manager, generated a chaotic string of eighteen random characters involving symbols, numbers, and mixed-case letters, and pasted it into the field. He reviewed the “Active Devices” list. It showed his current MacBook Pro in Portland, his iPhone 15 Pro, and his iPad Air which usually lived on his bedside table. But there was a fourth entry: a “Chromebook Pixel” accessed from a generic IP address. He remembered logging in from a coffee shop in the Pearl District two months ago to check a notification. He immediately clicked “Logout.” The device vanished from the list. The perimeter was now secure.

The final step was the Notifications tab. Michael treated notifications like intruders; they had to justify their existence to be allowed into his mental space. He configured the system to be surgical. For messages from his Care Team, he allowed both Push Notifications and In-App alerts. These were high priority. If Dr. Emily had advice on his X-ray, he wanted to know immediately. For new offers, he selected Email and Push. He didn’t want to miss a renewal on his therapy package, but he didn’t need it cluttering his SMS inbox. For the weekly health summary, he chose “Email only.” He liked the idea of receiving a digest every Monday morning that he could read while drinking his coffee, rather than a buzzing distraction in the middle of his workday. For system security alerts, he enabled everything: Email and SMS. If someone tried to hack his account, he wanted sirens blaring. He turned off every other switch. No promotional newsletters, no “community updates,” no “friend suggestions.” Michael took a deep breath and moved his cursor to the bottom of the screen. The button read “Save All Changes.” He clicked it. A sleek, emerald-green pop-up appeared in the center of the screen: Account updated successfully. Your privacy controls are now optimized.

The entire process had taken twenty-one minutes. Michael sat back, feeling a strange sense of accomplishment. It wasn’t the same rush as deploying code, but it was deeper. He had built a safe harbor. He opened the platform’s communication tool, B-Messenger. He saw Dr. Emily’s profile—her status indicator was green, showing she was online in London, where it was already evening. Michael held down the microphone icon to record a voice note. He spoke clearly, the sound of the rain against the window providing a soft, white-noise backdrop. “Hi Dr. Emily, I just wanted to let you know I’ve updated my profile name to Mike R. and tightened up my privacy settings. You and the PT team still have full access to those new X-rays and the posture video I uploaded yesterday. I’m really feeling the sciatica today, so I’m looking forward to our session on Thursday to see what we can do about it.”

He released the button. The message sent instantly, a small waveform representing his voice appearing in the chat window. Thanks to the integrated AI Voice Translate and transcription services, Dr. Emily received the context immediately. Less than a minute later, a notification chimed. A response voice note appeared. Michael clicked play. Dr. Emily’s British accent was crisp and professional, cutting through the gloom of his Portland apartment. “Got it, Mike. Everything looks perfect on my end; I can see the files clearly. I’ve already taken a preliminary look at the L4-L5 spacing. We have a good plan for Thursday. Try to rest flat on your back with your legs elevated for twenty minutes tonight if you can. We’ll review the X-ray first thing Thursday morning.”

Michael closed his laptop. He stood up, wincing slightly as his back protested, but the mental weight felt significantly lighter. He stretched his arms overhead. He realized that for the first time in months, he wasn’t just a victim of his body or a passive recipient of healthcare. He was an active participant. On StrongBody.ai, he wasn’t just a patient; he was the administrator of his own health data. This ritual of privacy management that Michael performed is not unique. Across the United States and the United Kingdom, tens of thousands of users engage in this same digital housekeeping every month on the platform. They do it because the nature of health is changing. It is becoming data-driven, remote, and deeply collaborative. But with that connectivity comes vulnerability. When people share their deepest physical weaknesses—their chronic pain, their insomnia, their mental fragility—they require a sanctuary. They need to know that the walls are thick and the doors are locked. For Michael Reynolds, clicking “Save Changes” was not just a technical action. It was a declaration of autonomy. It was the moment he decided that while his back might be hurting, his information was safe, and his recovery was firmly, undeniably, in his own hands.

Detailed Guide To Create Buyer Account On StrongBody AI

To start, create a Buyer account on StrongBody AI. Guide: 1. Access website. 2. Click “Sign Up”. 3. Enter email, password. 4. Confirm OTP email. 5. Select interests (yoga, cardiology), system matching sends notifications. 6. Browse and transact. Register now for free initial consultation!

Overview of StrongBody AI

StrongBody AI is a platform connecting services and products in the fields of health, proactive health care, and mental health, operating at the official and sole address: https://strongbody.ai. The platform connects real doctors, real pharmacists, and real proactive health care experts (sellers) with users (buyers) worldwide, allowing sellers to provide remote/on-site consultations, online training, sell related products, post blogs to build credibility, and proactively contact potential customers via Active Message. Buyers can send requests, place orders, receive offers, and build personal care teams. The platform automatically matches based on expertise, supports payments via Stripe/Paypal (over 200 countries). With tens of millions of users from the US, UK, EU, Canada, and others, the platform generates thousands of daily requests, helping sellers reach high-income customers and buyers easily find suitable real experts.

Operating Model and Capabilities

Not a scheduling platform

StrongBody AI is where sellers receive requests from buyers, proactively send offers, conduct direct transactions via chat, offer acceptance, and payment. This pioneering feature provides initiative and maximum convenience for both sides, suitable for real-world health care transactions – something no other platform offers.

Not a medical tool / AI

StrongBody AI is a human connection platform, enabling users to connect with real, verified healthcare professionals who hold valid qualifications and proven professional experience from countries around the world.

All consultations and information exchanges take place directly between users and real human experts, via B-Messenger chat or third-party communication tools such as Telegram, Zoom, or phone calls.

StrongBody AI only facilitates connections, payment processing, and comparison tools; it does not interfere in consultation content, professional judgment, medical decisions, or service delivery. All healthcare-related discussions and decisions are made exclusively between users and real licensed professionals.

User Base

StrongBody AI serves tens of millions of members from the US, UK, EU, Canada, Australia, Vietnam, Brazil, India, and many other countries (including extended networks such as Ghana and Kenya). Tens of thousands of new users register daily in buyer and seller roles, forming a global network of real service providers and real users.

Secure Payments

The platform integrates Stripe and PayPal, supporting more than 50 currencies. StrongBody AI does not store card information; all payment data is securely handled by Stripe or PayPal with OTP verification. Sellers can withdraw funds (except currency conversion fees) within 30 minutes to their real bank accounts. Platform fees are 20% for sellers and 10% for buyers (clearly displayed in service pricing).

Limitations of Liability

StrongBody AI acts solely as an intermediary connection platform and does not participate in or take responsibility for consultation content, service or product quality, medical decisions, or agreements made between buyers and sellers.

All consultations, guidance, and healthcare-related decisions are carried out exclusively between buyers and real human professionals. StrongBody AI is not a medical provider and does not guarantee treatment outcomes.

Benefits

For sellers:
Access high-income global customers (US, EU, etc.), increase income without marketing or technical expertise, build a personal brand, monetize spare time, and contribute professional value to global community health as real experts serving real users.

For buyers:
Access a wide selection of reputable real professionals at reasonable costs, avoid long waiting times, easily find suitable experts, benefit from secure payments, and overcome language barriers.

AI Disclaimer

The term “AI” in StrongBody AI refers to the use of artificial intelligence technologies for platform optimization purposes only, including user matching, service recommendations, content support, language translation, and workflow automation.

StrongBody AI does not use artificial intelligence to provide medical diagnosis, medical advice, treatment decisions, or clinical judgment.

Artificial intelligence on the platform does not replace licensed healthcare professionals and does not participate in medical decision-making.
All healthcare-related consultations and decisions are made solely by real human professionals and users.