About the Time I Decided to Start Working Out Again

Look.
I’ve always struggled with weight.
Not in the “omg I’m so bloated after sushi” way.
In the “my thighs could crush a bear cub and I sweat just from existing” way.

And for most of my adult life, I’ve had an on-again-off-again relationship with exercise.
Like a toxic situationship.
We break up. I ghost her. Then one day I walk past a mirror sideways and suddenly it’s “hey bestie, you up?”

I’ve always worked out.
But I’ve also always eaten like a malnourished cat seeing wet food for the first time.
Eyes wide. Frenzied. Feral. No logic. Just vibes.
Like yes, I will eat a salad. In fact, salads are my favourite food. But then I will also eat three slices of cheese directly from the fridge standing up in the dark like a divorced raccoon.

I’m not proud of this, ok?

Because at some point, the math just stopped mathing.
I was eating like I’d just emerged from a famine — but the famine was emotional stability — and I wasn’t moving enough to justify the calories or the chaos. Damn, my therapist would be SO proud.

So, I started working out again.

Not for aesthetics. Not for revenge. Not even for beach season (I live at the beach half the time and still walk around like a sweaty croqueta).
No, I did it because I got tired of wheezing when I walk uphill.
Because my dog deserves a mom who can keep up.
Because I want to be a weird old lady one day who can squat and still yell at people.

So I made the decision:

Get. Your. Ass. Up.

And you know what?
I hate it.

I hate the sweating.
I hate putting on a sports bra, which is basically medieval chest armor.
I hate burpees. Oh. Oh, I hate these SO much.
I hate lunges.
I hate that “eight more” somehow feel like a thousand.

But I’m doing it.

And yes, I make excuses.
Yes, I sometimes “accidentally” skip it because I “forgot” I had “plans” (with my couch).
Yes, I fake stretch just to look like I’m doing something when I’m mostly trying not to pass out.

But for my dear fucking life — I’m sticking to it.

Because this is the only body I’ve got.
And while she may be soft, wobbly, and deeply suspicious of cardio — she’s mine.

I’m not doing this because I hate myself.
I’m doing it because I love myself — or at the very least, I’m learning to.

I want to be healthy.
I want to be strong.
I want to live long enough to see my cats judge me from the comfort of their senior beds, and my dog grow gray around the muzzle.
I want to climb stairs without gasping like I just ran from a serial killer.
I want to feel good. Not just emotionally. Physically.

And I’m not waiting until I’m “ready” or “motivated” — because that bitch never shows up anyway.
I’m doing it tired.
I’m doing it annoyed.
I’m doing it out of breath and a little resentful.
But I’m doing it.