For most of my life, if you asked me if I was fit, I would say yes without hesitation. I spent my childhood playing year-round sports, was on a D1 lacrosse team in college, became a certified trainer, and spent more than a decade as a fitness director for a major women’s magazine.
By pretty much any objective measure, my fitness hovered somewhere above average. More than that, I loved it: the stress relief, the sense of accomplishment, the high after a tough workout; the grit I developed in (and out) of sports. It wasn’t hard for me to feel connected to and passionate about exercise.
But as I sit here in the midst of a stressful season of life — a few months out from unexpected abdominal surgery, among other joys — I am so very far from that version of me.
I know I don’t have the speed, strength, or cardiovascular endurance I’ve had in the past. And for the first time (maybe ever), I’m not sure what to call myself.
