“I can’t do it alone.” As I detailed my fun, fine, and forty fitness goals to my new trainer, a ping of embarrassment crossed my chest. I had become helpless in my body despite repeated attempts over the years to flatten my bulging “stress” belly. “At this point, I would already be doing it instead of scrolling through Instagram posts of work out influencers,” I lamented. In our subsequent sessions over the course of 3 months, I would make attempts to swing 45 lb kettlebells between my legs, squat with 20 lb weights on either side of my shoulders, and strain through plank twists because you can’t neglect your abs. 3 sets of 25, always 25. These were the most intense workouts I had endured up to that point and there were many times I thought my body would break, but I did get stronger.
I did get sick as well, but when I recovered through rest and a better/more caloric intake, I started building this new body that felt resilient. I felt illness starting to commandere my immune system and with the strength that I exerted for pull ups–with my trainer pushing from beneath–I pushed down the nausea, the sniffles. I was becoming. I was loading.
With the new pivot that we are facing, my pseudo-gym rat powers have severely diminished and I am more focused on overhauling my self-care regimen in general, i.e. sleep patterns, water intake, nutrition, daily stretches. I have to ask my body permission to begin strenuous exercises again. But even still, whenever I drop into a squat position, my body reminds me that I taught it strength and stamina. And I can return whenever I’m ready.
I still don’t get it 