Progress vs. Perfection

For whatever reason, it feels weird to admit that it’s taken me most of my life to-date to truly cultivate a sense of self love. It’s simply not something that comes natural to me. As the youngest of four children, who took a very unorthodox — for my family, anyway — path to success, I have a lot of chatter in my head, and it’s mostly criticism.

But then I discovered fitness.

I’ve never – read: NEVER EVER – enjoyed any element of exercise. As kids, we were never pushed to play sports; my parents focused on academic excellence. Until the pounds poured on.

I saw fitness as the enemy; exercise, in my eyes, was something only the naturally thin could endure without collapsing in misery.

And then I met Frank Duffy. And through Frank Duffy, I met my friends in fitness. And through that crew, affectionately dubbed my “gym baes” — judge me, I dare you, I’ve discovered a sense of self.

Coaching, which for me is now long distance, has truly changed my life. I’ve met friends who are invested in similar, highly personal health and wellness goals and strength has truly bonded us. We are grounded in our goals, and go above and beyond to support one another. The community aspect has been a critical component of my success; other gym-goers are not your competition. They should be your motivation.

I’m at a point now where I care about myself in a way that goes beyond a number on a scale or dress size. I care about my wellbeing and having a clear mind, much of which has been achieved through regular exercise and a balanced diet.

I see each workout as an opportunity to be a little better — in form, weight lifted, number of reps, etc. — and each meal as a challenge to be more creative with nutritious ingredients.

I’ve found comfort in community and accountability, and have found direction and purpose in owning each meal and workout. I’m not focused on perfection, but on regular progress.

Call me a convert, but I’m now a Franky Duffy Fitness devotee, and have found a form of exercise that enables me to feel stronger, better and happier each and every day.

 

Fit Happens

I’m not sure that I’ve ever enjoyed a single element of physical fitness. My parents didn’t make a hard push for us to be involved in sports, and our pantry was a haven for fat-free, chemical-laden snacks. Snackwell’s Cookies and Diet Coke were household staples.

Through my oh-so-cruel teenage years I struggled with a trifecta of issues: acne, yo-yoing weight and glasses. Exit: self esteem.

In college, I learned how to cook and started caring about nutrition. I was on the cusp of making a change until friends were gossiping about how I was considering a formal weight-loss program like Weight Watchers.

So I boomeranged. I gained back weight that I worked so hard to lose. Mixed drinks that I passed on, weekend evenings spent at the campus gym; meaningless when matched with college cattiness.

When I moved to New York, I focused more on work and food became an autonomous after-thought. Bagels for breakfast, Thai for lunch, and leftovers for dinner. I tucked away concerns about my nutrition in favor of reminders of my professional success.

Any good publicist or communicator knows that deep down even the most convincing spin can’t stop a crisis from bubbling up.

I’m faced with an unsavory family medical history. My father had a heart attack, is a type-2 diabetic, and has Parkinson’s. My mother has been a fad dieter for as long as I can remember. Together, these characteristics and diagnoses are a recipe for disaster.

Confronting a need for change meant — and still means — that I need to accept and profess imperfection.

A harsh reality of “adulting” — a phrase which is standalone proof of my millennial status — is that as we age, healthy choices and changes are harder to make. More roadblocks pop up, and we have a Seinfeld-style rolodex of excuses to slap on nearly any situation.

As someone with self-professed control issues, it took an appointment with my beloved internist, complete with a well-meaning guilt-trip, for me to come to terms with the path I was haphazardly tiptoeing down and to stop myself from reasoning away my wavering health.

Accustomed to manicures and Ubers, I like the idea of little luxuries. Personal training always felt out of reach to me. I revolve around my personal and professional relationships — I do work in social media, after all — and I couldn’t imagine bonding with someone who was privy to my vulnerabilities.

And then I met a trainer I clicked with. He’s not a buff-bodied bozo. Well, he’s not a bozo, anyways. Time in between sessions is filled with text messages and snapchats. I have a newfound sense of accountability to myself, and to him. Better yet, we’re approaching 40 sessions together and I feel stronger, happier and more determined than I ever would have thought possible.

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There are things that I kvetch about — kettle bell swings are my kryptonite — but ultimately I enjoy each and every workout, because I’m challenging myself. My trainer is my sense of control — which for me equates to comfort. He motivates me through my curmudgeonly approach to exercise, and coaches me to embrace my physical and nutritional potential.

Making time to train twice a week has become second nature bordering on necessity. Every day is a challenge — to be active, to eat smart, to drink water and to stay positive. But the challenge is refreshing, and quite frankly, I like toning muscles that I never knew existed. Lots of road is left to cover, but I’m committed to the journey because I’m committed to myself.