Two years ago, a moment of acute and somehow enduring heartache became the unlikely catalyst for the most radical physical transformation of my life. It wasn’t a single decision but the activation of a strange, powerful engine fueled by three levers: self-loathing, self-love, and self-discovery. Through no conscious effort of my own, they reached a state of calibration that saw me more committed to my physical well-being than I’d ever been in my entire life.
The first lever, self-loathing, was the raw, uncomfortable push. It was the voice that said, “This is not good enough,” the kind of internal criticism that makes sitting still so unbearable you have to literally move. If you don’t need this lever, don’t use it. It’s a tricky beast.
The second, self-love, was the gentle, consistent pull — a quieter voice I haven’t heard much in my life that whispered, “You deserve to feel good,” even if simple vanity drove some of it.
The third lever, self-discovery, was the path itself, and entirely new: the novelty of finding out what my body could do, which was really just me getting so hyper-focused on a new hobby that I was literally chasing hiking trail ghosts on Strava to be the fastest person to hike a section.
For ten months, this strange calibration held. I ran my first-ever 5k. I became one of those hikers who barrels past slow traffic on the trail. I burned through clothing sizes so quickly that I had to replace my entire wardrobe—twice. The daily exercise wasn’t just a healthy habit; it became a dependency. A day without it felt intolerable, a disruption to an unfamiliar harmony. I still miss the way that having to concentrate on pedalling just a bit harder was the best way to silence intrusive thoughts.
But such delicate states rarely last. The force of its collapse came as a shock, though in hindsight, that level of intensity was never going to be sustainable. A toxic combination of generalized sorrow, a debilitating bout of COVID exhaustion, a health scare, and — most profoundly — a loss of community, completely enervated me. I ended up in a simple loop: work, the couch, and bad sleep that only made me more tired. I was alive, but I wasn’t truly living.
For the past few months, I felt like I was at an inflection point. Either I pick up speed racing down the hill towards oblivion, or I find the strength to resist in the force of inertia. In the words of a favorite poet, I can at least try to “let the dying be long,” as little control as we have ultimately over that.
If I were an online life coach, this would be the build-up to a reductive call to action. I’d lay down some half-understood Marcus Aurelius quote and a smug dig that would make readers feel badly enough about themselves to believe that I have an answer for $19.99 a month.
I don’t have that. At all.
My grand strategy? A spreadsheet where I track calories and exercise, water consumed and time spent reading, writing, and socializing. I’m trying to solve a complex emotional problem with data entry.
Last week, I put the skinny clothes away. It wasn’t some profound act of self-acceptance; I just got tired of them making me feel bad every time I opened my closet.
I know how self-indulgent this all is. In a world full of actual, systemic suffering, writing about my personal fitness journey feels obscene. But here we are.
Today is day six of trying to restart the engine. After nearly a week, I can feel the beginnings of a shift. I am hopeful for the first time in a long time, eager to continue the journey back to being the version of myself I know I can be.
Time to calibrate those levers one more time. If anyone wants to join me on Strava or Apple Fitness, I’ll be back on Monday.
