Less is more. I didn’t always buy into that statement.
But now I do.
In just one short month, my relationship with exercise transcended yet another hurdle in my eating disorder journey.
Exercise and I have always been a part of each other’s’ lives. I grew up an athlete, the girl that leaves dance class early to make volleyball practice. Up until age 14 movement was secondary to fun. I never thought of soccer practice as exercise.
And then middle school ended, and high school was around the corner, and overnight I grew to hate my changing body. I began to wonder how I can look like the slim high schoolers I’d admired from afar. I was afraid to begin freshmen year in a state that I deemed “ugly”. My Google searches were populated by inquiries about dieting, juice cleanses, workouts for a “flat tummy”. It’s safe to say I developed an eating disorder within the first three months of high school.
My view on exercise did a 360. I had to work out more, I figured, in order to be stronger. Sports were no longer fun because they became a chore. One workout a day wouldn’t cut it. I was addicted to burning myself to because I thought it would change me from the outside in.
It didn’t.
Years passed and through each one I fluctuated between recovery and relapse. Eventually I got myself together and was able to restore my physical and mental health to stability. But even now, as a weight-restored and healthy wellness-enthusiast, with exercise as my friend and no longer my foe, there is still room for growth.
A month ago I took on a full-time internship that sent me into a state of intense anxiety. My commute was two hours each way, plus an eight-hour work day. I’d leave at 6:30 AM, work until 6:00 PM, and stumble into my house at 8:30 PM where I’d shovel toast into my mouth, take a six-minute shower, and hop into bed just to do it all again in 6 hours. I had no time for family, friends, or most importantly, myself. No longer did I have those slow summer mornings to sip on ACV and lemon water while reading by the pool.
I no longer had time for exercise.
Given my past, this proposition came with immense difficulty. The commute was mentally and physically taxing and this tempted me to quit every single day. Now I couldn’t workout either? Just add that to the list. For me, exercise is now a form of therapy. I’ve found peace with moving in ways that feel good, ways that make me feel stronger on all planes of my being. I don’t force myself to the gym every day. If my body tells me no, let’s go for a light walk instead, I do that.
But now there was no time for this therapy, this re-centering, this form of self-love. As the month went on I found myself itching to move. To break a sweat, to get my heart-rate up, anything to redeem this lost piece of my routine.
The only time I had for myself came on the weekends. Saturday and Sunday were heaven-sent. I could sleep in. I could finally COOK again. And, you guessed it, I could finally exercise. Woo!
It wasn’t until the very last weekend before work ended that I realized something. Because working out was now a rare occurrence, I appreciated it more than I ever have in my entire life. I vividly remember standing in an empty studio in the gym on a rainy Saturday afternoon. Staring at my reflection. Hyping myself up to get through one more set of burpees. I remember telling myself to stop and take in how good this feels. The feeling of strength, of growth. It was empowering. I was mindful of the fact that for the next week, I wouldn’t experience this thrill again.
This realization shook something within me.
Sometimes, we take the time we have to move our bodies for granted. Before my summer became consumed by work, I had a week or two where every day was an open book. No plans, no obligations. I would make sure to exercise on all of these days, but honestly my workouts weren’t very strong. I would put 50% effort into them with the mindset that “I’ll be back tomorrow, so it’s whatever”. Now, standing in this mirror with this one chance to give it my all, I realized that this entire time I have been subconsciously putting in 100% effort with the mindset that “This is the feeling I’ll hang onto for the next five days, make it a good one”.
My relationship with exercise changed (yet again) in that moment. When I was forced to work out less, I grew to appreciate movement more. When something is accessible to us with great convenience, we aren’t forced to think about how grateful we are for it being there. We simply expect it to be where we left it, and when it is, we’re unchanged. When it’s not, it’s the absence that provokes a response. Why are we so distraught without this thing? From there we can see our reliance on it, and determine whether or not that is healthy for our mental well-being. They say you don’t know what you have until it’s gone. It’s true!
This brief period in my summer helped me grow immensely. Even though I’ve finished work and am back to those blank slate days (only for a short while!), I still approach exercise with this mentality. Every chance I have to move my body and feel strong is a blessing. I can fully and deeply appreciate that now.
Its goes without saying, but being forced to take five days off of my regular exercise routine every week also taught me another thing: that doing so isn’t the end of the world. I’m not “unhealthy” because I work out less. I’m “healthy” because I can accept the place I’m in and prioritize my life in a rational manner. Sometimes life gets in the way. A healthy person is one who can accept this and understand that everything will fall into place.
Including leg day.
