I’m a reluctant athlete. I was the kid who preferred reading in an air-conditioned room over running around in 100-degree heat. The kind who, by freshman year, dislocated her knee—in P.E. class.
So when my father—a former varsity athlete also involved in student government—told me I needed to round out my “academic” resume in preparation for college admissions, I felt a mix of disbelief and dread. But I quickly discovered that I could earn a spot on the varsity diving team simply by showing up, attempting a dive, and committing to every practice and meet.
It was my first experience having zero natural aptitude for something. I was terrible.
But that season taught me persistence. My goal wasn’t to excel; it was to not waste my coach’s time, to be part of a team (I could scorekeep, carry parkas, and cheer with the best of them), and to just keep trying. I did. I never competed, but I earned that varsity letter—and wore the jacket and ring with pride.
Over the years, I’ve returned to exercise for many reasons:
The gym as a shared activity with boyfriends.
Lap swimming to manage stress.
Pilates to recover from knee surgeries.
Spinning to harness my competitive edge and check my angst.
But weightlifting has met me at the most pivotal moments.
Lifting Through Life’s Chapters
The first time I stepped into the weight area, it was with a personal trainer—I’d been too intimidated otherwise. I was newly divorced, freshly signed up at the chicest gym, and ready to redeem the free intro session.
Once again, I was humbled. I learned about muscle recovery, balance, and just how freaking hard it is to control a swinging kettlebell. My goals were simple: don’t waste time (mine or my trainer’s), don’t get injured, and keep trying.
I stuck with it for years—through my first pregnancy and a move to the East Coast. Some things, like pull-ups, never got easier (they combined my lack of strength with the added humiliation of vertigo from the support machines), and every break set me back a little more. The path back to strength took longer each time.
Earlier this year, I picked up weights again—ostensibly to combat aging and protect my bones. But underneath there was a deeper need: I was in another moment of transition. I needed to go back to something that asked only one thing of me—to show up.
This time, I let go of the urge to prove anything by lifting heavier or pushing harder. The focus shifted to form, the work became listening, and the real strength was knowing when to rest.
Somewhere between learning to Romanian deadlift properly and accepting that some days I’d only manage half my usual routine, I started to notice the parallels. The gym wasn’t just building muscle; it was teaching me how to navigate everything else. The same patience I needed to master form was what I needed during periods of uncertainty. The rest days that felt like failure were actually necessary for growth, just like the quiet periods between life chapters. I began to see that the weight room was a rehearsal space for resilience.
What I’ve Carried—and Let Go
I used to think progress meant pushing through. More weight. More reps. More grit.
But life, like the gym, has its own way of humbling you. Transitions don’t care how strong you were yesterday—they ask who you’re becoming today.
Each change—career shifts, personal loss, redefinition of self—has asked something different of me. Some seasons required stamina. Others, surrender. Some demanded muscle. Others, mercy.
What I’ve learned, slowly and with more pauses than I’d like to admit, is that carrying something well doesn’t always mean carrying it alone—or carrying it far. It means knowing when to set it down. Adjust your grip. Reset.
Sometimes, letting go is strength. Sometimes, staying open is resilience.
The weight isn’t the story.
How you carry it is.
The Last Lift
You don’t have to prove anything today.
You don’t have to handle everything at once.
Just start where you are.
Breathe.
Add a little weight—if it feels right.
Move with intention.
Pay attention to your form.
And let that be enough.
For today, that is more than enough.