Six Months Of Working My Ass Off And I Couldn't See The Progress

I had the proof in my hands

I watched my body in the mirror while swinging my kettlebell yesterday. Back between my legs, explode up to face level, back down, and up again. Over and over. Thirty-five pounds of controlled violence.

Six months of work to get my body under control. Insulin dosing, managing macros, exercising, and all the work you do. My glucose levels are still all over the place.

I walk but not enough. Eat well but not enough. I’ve gained 6 pounds of muscle and lost 4 pounds of fat.

I damn near threw my kettlebell through the wall.

Clearly, what I’m doing is not enough.

Six months ago, I was fat. Fat like, “I shop at the big and tall store, my stomach enters the room three seconds before I do,” fat. I could not squat down, kneel, and, more importantly, get back up without help.

And I had a health crisis. My glucose levels screamed upwards until my body said “Bro. Enough.”

The numbers weren’t good. Nor were the data from my bloodwork, my ECG, and stress test. They all said the same thing: do nothing and you’re dead sooner than later.

Something needed to change. And I struggled to do so.

The idea of change overwhelmed me. The thought of failure wrapped my head in a blanket of fear and shoved my head so far down a hole you could park your bicycle betwixt my cheeks. (<-- Bet you didn’t expect to read betwixt today, did you?)

My resistance to change revealed a certain fragility within me.

It doesn’t help that I am prone to making such sweeping changes at 2:14 in the morning, half asleep and swatting at the noise of my own inadequacies. You know. Another Tuesday.

In January, I made changes. Afraid. Uncertain. And a little bit angry.

In many ways, I didn’t know what to do. But I started. Then iterated.

I changed how I ate. Reduced eating desserts and sugar laden foods to zero. I adjusted and tracked my macro levels. I began walking again. And swinging a kettle bell to build endurance and strength.

I started with a twelve pound kettle bell. It felt small to the point of ridiculous. About the size of a softball. But it was heavy. That surprised me.

I swung it for ten reps. And sucked hard to steady my heaving chest.

I was weak in ways I didn’t realize.

The struggle was real. I workout alone in my basement and felt ashamed at my frailty. I could almost hear my workout rack looking down its red powder-coated posts. “Psshh. Let a real man workout here.”

I tried to stay within my limits. Which was damned hard because my limits were small. And I didn’t know them. So early on, it hurt. And I’d recover, adjust, and still hurt.

I rediscovered muscles I had forgotten about. And learned that walking a route one day is no guarantee that you can cover the same ground tomorrow.

My eyelashes hurt at times.

On the days of my workouts, it took effort to get up, get dressed, and go do the work. Once I was in it, momentum came and I’d get through it.

Until I started a workout tired and unmotivated. And every swing, every rep felt torturous.

Some days, eating well simply happened. On other days, all I could think about was a hot, steaming bowl of ramen. And ate the broccoli.

Every day, I felt like I was pushing against an unseen something. Something that promised comfort. And ease. And not having to deal with the inconvenience of working out, then showering and when, in the structure of the day, do I fit this workout in.

I felt the push back when I weighed myself each week. And looked for the progress in my body data.

I felt the resistance when I had to fly across the country and bury my father. And longed to stuff my face with the sweet comfort of ice cream, Mac and cheese, and whatever snack lay around.

I wrested quiet out of the noise of my loss working out in the hotel fitness center. And walked when I would rather have simply slept away the afternoon.

And looking at my body in the mirror, it felt like a colossal waste of time and effort. A part of me raised its wicked little voice. “What’s the point? Might as well enjoy life while you can.”

And all my rage, and fear, and grief, and frustration surged up in me as I swung the kettlebell, a furious piston ready to blow. Everything in me ached to hurl the kettlebell at the mirror and the wall.

And then I stopped.

I put down the kettlebell. Thirty-five pounds of iron. I stared again at the mirror.

Past the fat and the moobs, I could see some of the muscles and solidness of my body. My triceps and biceps showed themselves. My quads evidenced separation. Not much, but it was there.

I was not the same as I was six months ago.

Six months ago, it hurt to swing 12 pounds. Yesterday, I could have hurled 35 pounds at a wall ten feet away from me.

Clearly, what I’m doing is enough.