I’m starting this post without a solid title in mind since I’m not sure exactly where I’ll land when I finally hit “submit.” Basically, I’m staring at a blank screen, and words are just popping up in a somewhat coherent order while I try to find purchase—and at the same time annoy you by not just diving in.

Fine, I’ll share a struggle—well, another one. The first struggle was about how to start talking about this next struggle—and just to be clear, these struggles are just the tip of my struggle iceberg. I mean, most days I feel like I’m the character in Airplane proclaiming, “Looks like I picked the wrong week to…” thanks to this fun little carousel called life spinning around me.

Although, I’d like to think I make it my own by switching it up and declaring things like, “I picked the wrong week to quit day drinking.” (Quick disclaimer—just to keep the record perfectly straight—I don’t really drink, and I definitely haven’t picked up day drinking as a habit – not this week, at least.)

I know, I’m procrastinating, and I’m doing that because this one bothers me. So, I just need to rip that bandage off.

Over the past 10 years, I’ve really enjoyed exercising. At one point, I was working out up to six days a week, and it just felt good. Despite my size, you could see definition in my shoulders and really down my back, especially as I dropped weight. Exercise was also my escape – the best way I could stuff down all the internal chatter and just enjoy the quiet – at least for one hour out of every day, especially after Jay died.

My routine was: get up at 4, head to the gym, work out, then head to work, which was about a mile from the gym. I had no excuse—if I was heading to work, I had to go by that gym, so why not stop there? And when I wasn’t at the gym, I was doing something else, like taking swimming lessons or archery.

Then COVID hit, and everything shut down, but I adapted. I picked up a good range of weights and other equipment. I got access to a rower, and I met my trainer at her house regularly. Slowly (by like a year), swimming and archery became options again.

Then life shifted again. My trainer moved on (great for her!), the archery range closed, and I leveled out of my swim class only to find the next class didn’t fit my schedule. (There’s no universe where I’m swimming at 8 p.m. on a school night.) I’ve had a series of trainers—some fine, one so bad I avoided the gym entirely—but I haven’t found that perfect fit again. Then came the mandate to return to the office. That meant dropping my trainer and adding a daily commute. I can make it to the office in 35 minutes if I leave by 4:50 a.m., but there’s no gym nearby that works for me.

Another event that impacted everything is that we were also mandated to return to the office, which forced me to drop my trainer and start driving daily. I can make it to the office in about 35 minutes if I leave by 4:50 a.m. But I can’t go back to my old gym—there’s not a gym close enough to that location that works. That said, we are fortunate enough to have an office gym that’s comparable to a really nice hotel gym, but just like a hotel gym, the weight range is limited for the DBs and KBs. Also, forget a real rack or a bench press; that’s not a thing. We do, however, have one Smith machine, but even if getting on it was a possibility—which it’s not thanks to everyone else licking the bar and calling dibsies as soon as they walk through the doors—I don’t like how it messes with my ROM and form when I deadlift; it actually hurts my back.

Before the mandate to return to work, I’d see my trainer once a week, and I’d use the office gym twice a week—always early in the morning (that’s my thing). After the mandate, I had to drop my trainer, and the occupancy of our work gym tripled—even at 5:30 a.m., making using anything a struggle, not to mention accessing the showers—and you really want me to have access to a shower. About a month after that, the dump truck struck my car on the highway, shearing off my side mirror at 70 MPH, so now I carpool when I can, and well, carpool doesn’t lend itself well to morning workouts (but it helps stuff down anxiety attacks).

I do have an online trainer, but he’s not around me—he can’t check my form, make changes based on what he’s seeing, or really push me. He basically builds a workout plan (something I haven’t had done in years, so that’s something), and I either do them or I don’t, but when I do, he cheers me on. That’s at least something.

So, basically, I’m struggling to get in 2–3 workouts a week. And to compound the whole thing—I’ve also been stress eating the worst food, and all of that has led me to ballooning out, and I find I’m where I was 10 years ago. The added weight makes me not want to be around people at all. Yes, I love you. No, I don’t want to see you, because I believe you’re tolerating my grossness, and I absolutely detest how I look; I’m grotesque. I don’t walk. I lumber. (Yes, yes, my counselor would ask me to back off on that, too.)

As you can see, all of that is leading to a fair amount of self-loathing to the extent that if you take a picture of me, please do me the honor of not sharing it with me—delete it at the very least, but I’d prefer you burn it.

And you know what would help push out all of that noise? Working out.

For the record, I’m not asking anyone to fix this; it’s not really yours to fix. I just wanted to share what’s going on in my brain right now. But do cut me some slack if you see me. Remember, I’m an only child, and I’m an only child who can’t show up for me right now, so imagine where everything else falls until I figure out how to life healthier.