It began, I suppose, as many a clichéd fitness journey begins: with a break-up.
I’m no stranger to heartbreak — although I often wish I was — so you would have thought I’d be a seasoned pro at this whole thing now. Which I more or less am. But, alas, this was not really about the break-up or about the person (sorry, ex). This was actually about losing a crucial sense of belonging I’d finally found in India.
You see, at the time, the relationship felt like one of the few things keeping me emotionally afloat in India, my passport country that continues to disappoint and confuse me. And so when this relatively more predictable and comforting part of my life here slowly started to slip through my fingers, I felt stranded in an ocean I wasn’t sure I could swim in.
But apart from this one, rather dramatic paragraph, I’m not going to bore you with the details of heartbreak today; don’t run away. Pun intended.
Today, we’re examining the act of working out. And no, this is not some preachy why you should work out post by a gym rat. I’m far from a gym rat. (Maybe just a rat?)
But even if this isn’t a pushy fitness post, does an act that millions of people incorporate into their daily routine without much fanfare really merit a whole blog post here, much less the first post in over a year?
Yes. Yes it does.
Because, just as that break-up wasn’t really about the person, this piece about working out isn’t really a piece about working out.
This is about how something that started off as a half-hearted ‘revenge body’ mission turned into something far more meaningful.
And that’s because this habit taught me something I had long forgotten:
The art of showing up imperfectly.
At the risk of sounding like your average tech bro: let’s set some context.
Shortly after the dust of heartbreak had settled, I was swelling with the excitement and optimism that comes with newfound singledom. I’m finally over them! I can focus on myself! I can swap the hours of late-night calls for hours of late-night reading!
The optimism, however, was fleeting. Because what I didn’t know was that, after one particular late-night reading session, I’d be waking up to the news that my financial commitments to my brother’s education would be increasing manifold. I was taking out a new loan. Another monthly installment payment plonked itself on the books.
So, the paise pinching began. I stopped travelling. I allowed myself to leave the house once a week; a Friday night dinner with Dad. I spent all my other time in a familiar — yet impossibly dull — loop of work-eat-sleep-repeat. I stopped living. I started existing.
And, at some point during this autopilot-fuelled routine, the fear of being ‘behind’ in life also started to rear its ugly head, for the first time since I found out I couldn’t return to university since 2015. As the days went on, I felt I’d developed the uncanny ability to get people married and pregnant simply by opening Instagram.
So, I chose to turn to LinkedIn for a while instead — only to find my special powers worked there, too: everywhere I looked, friends and ex-colleagues were relocating to the UK, leaving me wondering why I still hadn’t been able to return ‘home’ myself.
If I sound bitter and negative, it’s because I was.
Of course, this was only the pre-game of what would become a months-long pity party. I was going through what I’d later recognise as a particularly lonely phase: my father was away at the office all day and, as a result of being away so often, I had very few friends in the city we’re currently based in. So, I spent the majority of my days quietly sitting alone in front of the laptop.
Yes, I am and always will be grateful for the digital nomad lifestyle I’m lucky enough to lead (and I would not trade it for anything), but we don’t talk enough about the isolation that can come from giving up on the cubicle life. It’s not always glamorous — we’re not always working from some sun-drenched beach or postcard-perfect mountainside. Sometimes, it’s just you, a city with an alcohol ban, your overwhelming to-do list, and whoever has decided to renovate their house that day.
So I tumbled, one unshowered day to the next, in a haze. What was the point in showering if I wasn’t going to see or speak to anyone? What was the point in looking even vaguely presentable? (Honestly, as someone who loves getting fresh with their morning showers, looking back and examining this avatar of mine is particularly baffling. But then again, much of what we do in the throes of crisis seems baffling in hindsight).
And that’s when I noticed the telltale signs of depression and anxiety slowly re-emerging, declaring their intention to very much stay in place until I did something about them.
So, I did.
I wish I could pinpoint the moment I triumphantly declared that I was going to “change my life and start working out!” but, in reality, life is much quieter than that, isn’t it? Sometimes you just decide to start doing something and there isn’t much fuss around it. No public new year’s resolutions, no announcement. You just start and see how it goes.
What exactly pulled me down to the gym on that first day is also hazy. Was it an escape? Did I feel unhealthy? Desperate? Whatever it was, I did it. I laced up my shoes and skipped downstairs to go work out.
And that’s when everything started to change.
The gym became my sanctuary. The gym became the place that, no matter how low or desolate or confused or insecure I was feeling on any given day, one thing was certain: at 5.30PM, I would be shutting the laptop, squeezing on the sports bra (which, I would come to learn, is a workout in itself), opening the doors to the gym, and, for 60 whole minutes, I’d have a clear purpose.
I was strong. I was capable. I was focussed.
I was alive again.
But is there ever any good without the not-so-good?
Perhaps rather predictably, I quickly became hooked. Up until then, I was exasperatedly examining my daily life, seeking something, anything, to look forward to. And here was this shiny new fun activity that had finally ended my search: the gym!
But as irony would have it, I slowly allowed my new habit do just the thing I had allowed my recently broken relationship to do: I let it define me.
“Hi from your resident gym rat” I’d post, completely seriously, on my Instagram Stories. I’d work in my workouts into every possible conversation, including my recommendations for supplements in the market — much to the horror of my food-loving father, who simply could not fathom ‘drinking’ your nutrition.
My friends were taken aback, too. Me, the lifelong exercise-hater, lifelong food-lover and, well, daughter of Dad, was the proud owner of a stomach that had now shrunk to accommodate my protein-shake-as-a-meal habit.
But it didn’t stop at the eating (or lack thereof). Every time I performed a certain exercise, I nervously checked my form in all available mirrors. Was this correct? Was one knee further out than the other? Was I doing any of this right?
Those hours I was excited to reclaim for my reading? Of course I didn’t use them to read. I decided my time was better spent manically scrolling through workout Reels. I became obsessed with the idea of doing it all ‘perfectly’ — just like everything else in my life.
And so, the very thing that was supposed to improve my health? It was slowly eroding it.
Anyway, like your typical unhinged yet deeply self-aware millennial, I soon woke up to the error of my ways. Well, more accurately: I went to Goa, which brought back some much-needed balance (and booze) into my life. I worked out on the beach — no mirrors or worries in sight. I ate great food with great friends.
When I did return home, I returned to the gym with a renewed but healthy sense of determination: yes, form and diet was important, but I was working out for myself — not to become the next Gymshark athlete.
I realised that if I wanted to truly progress, being perfect wasn’t the goal. Being consistent was.
I realised that, much like fingerprints, no two workouts were alike: every repetition, every position, every body wouldn’t be perfect, every single time. Waiting for ‘ideal’ conditions — better sleep, fancier workout gear, higher protein intakes — would mean waiting forever. Instead, I accepted that every time I went to the gym mattered, no matter how many calories were burnt.
I realised that my new habit was instrumental in making me happier, and to sabotage it would be to sabotage my hard-won happiness.
So, I woke up.
Oh, and I started to eat three meals a day again!
In a year where I’d forgotten myself and what truly made me smile — writing, travelling, reading, socialising — it was the gym that reminded me of my abilities, my potential. My strength.
It also reunited me with the confidence, deep sleep, and peace I thought I’d long lost.
But, most important of all, the gym showed me that life was, indeed, worth waking up for.
And as for my long-suffering perfectionism? I never could have predicted that a bunch of dumbbells and machines would be what would help me finally overcome it. But they did. They reminded me that it was better to keep moving somehow, anyhow, than to not move at all.
They reminded me that it was better to show up imperfectly than to not show up at all.
Until next time,
S
Tell me: Did you also discover a hobby that helped you through a particularly difficult time in your life? What did it teach you?
Cover image captured by Nina D’Costa in Mount Abu, Rajasthan, India.