Day 3.
3 days of watching what I throw in my mouth, making sure I move my ass and putting annoying self righteous images of my food on instagram.
No real food tracking, but more trying to repurpose my mind that food is fuel rather than an emotional crutch.
It is food that I want to propel my own performance in fitness, because I ain’t going into middle age without a fight!
However, I am having to check my ego.
Because one thing about returning to fitness after a half hearted relationship with it over 9 months is that is is humbling. Moves that were once performed with ease are now taken as a challenge, and moves that were a challenge before, are now ones that need to be relearnt.
Ironically tho, no one in my gym seems to really give a fuck about my own mental and physical battles that occur every time I rock onto the gym floor all self conscious about my size and ability.
They would be pissed if I showed up and pretended to do what I could do before. If I shaved reps, cut corners and let my ego dominate.
But on the basis I turn up, have a crack, look like a tomato afterwards so everyone knows full effort was given – then I get nothing but a bit of community love – and ribbing from those I have trained with for years.
My scores sit last most days, but every time I lift a barbell, step on a box, do a bastard burpee, I feel my old self coming home. I hear my inner champion whisper you can do this. I remember that I want to be that mum who ran like a demon in rounders, who could always keep up with the kids, who joined in every activity because her body was in the right condition.
I come last and I’ve won – simply by turning up.
Letting your own opinion on what you think others think is a road direct to despair.
I choose another path.
Welcome back me.
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