the beginning

Fall of 2014. It started with a seasonal job at a warehouse.12 hours of standing on concrete floors was turning my body into a screaming, pleading, seizing thing. I started doing yoga in the evenings, hoping that holding a stretch or two would make my body feel a little bit closer to normal. I remember putting myself in half-pigeon for the first time and bursting into tears. Hip openers, man. Who knew? The release was that good. It was exactly what I needed.

Yoga was my gateway drug into weightlifting. I have numerous friends that site yoga as their gateway to other things too--martial arts, running, lifting. I was really getting into it--when I moved to Egypt I had my yoga mat sticking out of my carry-on bag. I loved to practice in the flat with the balcony doors wide open during call to prayer. The more I practiced, the more I craved complex movement. A lot of the moves required upper body strength that I simply did not have. I wanted that crow pose to handstand, badly.

In Cairo, I joined a gym. At first I put a lot of miles on the treadmill. As a runner this made the most sense--foolishly I used to think cardio and running were interchangeable terms. I started familiarizing myself with the various machines, especially ones targeting the shoulders and chest. I bought a dumbbell at the local market and pressed it above my head regularly. I've always been spaghetti-like in upper body, so this was a big deal for me. I learned to do a proper push-up. I started to try different machines at the gym, and read up on things like supersets and programming.

My interest in yoga began to slowly fade. I wanted to get stronger. I was starting to like the way lifting heavy things felt. Running in shitty shoes on the treadmill gave me blisters under my toe nails(gross), so I stopped making that a priority. And, compared to lifting, it was boring. I started to explore other methods of cardio--incline intervals, rowing machine, stair stepper, HIIT(a favorite).

I truly fell in love with weightlifting in 2015. My recreational relationship with the gym/working out turned into a personal mission of sorts. I started reading, and applying the knowledge to my workouts. I wrote down reps and sets meticulously. I started school for personal training. I worked out every day. In Dubai, I ended up overtraining which was kind of scary. Everything felt wrong but I couldn't put a finger on it. I was depressed, I couldn't sleep. After fainting I went to the doctor. I took some time off, and almost immediately after/during my world kind of fell apart(marriage ended, moved back to the states). The end of 2015 was a bit brutal.

In 2016 I healed my busted heart at the gym. I left my notebook at home--I realized that the number of reps/weight/etc fixation had definitely contributed to my overtraining. I wanted to start over, train smarter, be easier with myself. I learned that rest days were just as important as working days(if not moreso). I probably drove everyone in my immediate vicinity crazy with all the workout talk. It was helping me put one foot in front of the other after having my life fall apart. This was my therapy, my safe place. When I did not know what to do with myself, I went to the gym. When I felt myself grow so angry that I could barely see straight, I went to the gym. I have no doubt that weightlifting helped me heal from all the bullshit, and it reminded me of my value as a person. Simply put: this shit saved my life.