What if You Fly?

One year ago today, I walked into a gym. Scared out of my mind, my face masked in weariness. Worried I wasn’t ‘good enough’ to be there.

Yet, I walked in anyway. Ready to find a strength buried deep inside me.

I was tired. Sad. Empty.

I felt like I was walking in fear. Every day. Worried about the mental health of my child. Wondering how we were going to make it through. I was holding on, by the tips of my fingers. I knew I had work to do.

As I sat across from my new trainer, he asked me about my goals. Did I want to lose some weight? Of course. Was I hoping to get fit? Yes. But, as I shared with him, my priority was getting stronger. Starting on the inside. Deep in my mind. And soul. Because I knew, if I started there, the strength would work its way outward and ripple through the rest of my body.

That day, the only actual work out I did was lunges. And I thought I was going to collapse. I never thought lunges were that hard before. But then, when you do them with correct form, and a trainer pushing down on your leg, suddenly…they. are. hard. I’m not sure I even made it through 20 on each leg.

When I walked through the red door that day, I felt broken on the inside. Leaving, I was broken on the outside. Legs shaking and weak, I practically fell out the door and down the steps as I headed to my car. I knew this was what I had to do. But I was so afraid. I couldn’t even do freaking lunges. How pathetic was I? This was the voice in my head.

But still. I showed up anyway. Once a week. Not always consistently, because shortly after I braved my way to this new gym, my son went into crisis. Days were filled with therapists, meetings at school, psychiatrists…and ultimately, almost seven weeks of partial hospitalization for him.

The days were hard. I did what I could, just to make it to the next moment. And I was determined not to quit. Some weeks I missed. But I refused to give up. Although that seemed much easier and crossed my mind,  one or a thousand times.

Fall arrived. My son started his first year of middle school. It was a disaster. The transition was awful. But I held on to hope. And made my trek to the gym once – and every so often – twice per week. Eventually, once the transition to middle school smoothed out. I upped my gym attendance to three times per week.

BEST. THING. I. EVER. DID.

No longer afraid to fail. No longer afraid to fall.

And no longer afraid to fly.

Because you know what I realized? I was afraid to fly. I was afraid to allow myself something good. I was afraid to enjoy and accomplish a goal. Why should I find something that brings me happiness, when my very own child fights every day just to have a fraction of his own?

For many years, I have been fighting this battle for my son, as his mother and his advocate. And candidly, since the day he was born, I started to lose myself. Bit by bit. I stopped focusing on me. How could I? When every day was a battle for him?

It was hard to feel good at anything, when I couldn’t take my son’s pain away. It was hard to feel strong, when I could no longer make him smile.

I don’t know what the turning point was for me last February, when I sent that text and scheduled my first appointment at the gym. Perhaps it was just hitting rock bottom. Knowing I had nothing left. Not even excuses. I was desperate.

One year later, to the day. And here we are. I walked through that red door again today. As I do every Wednesday. And I realized…

I have pushed myself beyond my limits. Over and over again.

I have stepped outside my comfort zone. Multiple times.

In the year since starting at this gym, I have found resilience. I have found strength. I have found a fighter.

I have found me.

And I have learned to fly.