Somewhere between my forties and now, my metabolism packed its bags and moved to the Caribbean. It didn’t even leave a note... And honestly, I don’t blame it — I’d move there too if I could.
One day, my jeans fit. The next, I was doing squats in front of the mirror, wondering when my waistband had become so judgmental. I work out regularly, but half the time I forget my watch at home — so according to my fitness tracker, I basically don’t exist. Meanwhile, I’m over here trying to cut carbs and still live a little.
I know what I should be doing — moving more, eating less, drinking water, sleeping better, avoiding that last glass of wine that insists it’s “just one more.” But knowing and doing are two very different life stages. And us 50-plus ladies who feel all the delights of “the change” know how hard it is to just get moving when dawn breaks long after the 2am eyes-pop-open episode.
The Hormone Plot Twist
Most mornings, I wake up somewhere between 4 and 5am, stumble to my desk, and get straight to work — survival mode: coffee later, because intermittent fasting doesn’t play nice with my grumbling tummy. I want to eat, but nope — that’s not allowed yet. At some point I do get coffee, though usually it involves walking down sixteen stairs to the kitchen, which somehow becomes a strategic waiting game until I’m ready… or until the husband is awake and goes and makes it for me (how amazing is this man?).
Survival strategy: check. Energy levels? Still buffering, Wi-Fi signal just too low.
And don’t get me started on cravings. My hormones whisper, “You deserve chocolate. You’ve had a hard week.” It’s Tuesday. I’ve never even been much of a sweet tooth — I’m a crisps girl through and through — but lately, I’ve been known to place the odd “Woolies after dark” Triple Chocolate Delight and Lemon Cheesecake dessert order to crush the craving. Hormones: 1. Self-control: 0.
The Diet Rollercoaster
I’ve tried everything — keto, low-carb, high-protein — the usual suspects. Lately, I’m dabbling in intermittent fasting, only to discover I’m terrible at both parts: the fasting and the intermittent. I’m a foodie at heart; I love cooking, I love tasting, and I will never, ever, subject myself to the horrors of cabbage and celery soup.
Every new plan feels like a fresh start… until I imagine a bag of crisps opening somewhere in the universe. Or I see a meme while scrolling that somehow relates to cheese — glorious, irresistible cheese. (Probably just a cheesy dad joke… oh, that is cheesy… OOOOH CHEESE.) Then I’m bargaining like a hostage negotiator: “Just one slice. Thin slice. Okay fine, one thick slice… with honey. But I’ll work out tomorrow.” But will I? Thank goodness for my daughter who actually enjoys workouts, the lovely ladies who count on me to show up, and my best friend who makes sure I do at least one session with her every weekend... and the husband who takes me on dates to the local climbing gym. Apparently, nothing says romance like hanging from a wall, chalk in your hair, and arms trembling like overcooked spaghetti — not to mention the view from below: harness, thighs, and all. True love, really.
And can we talk about people who “love kale”? I respect them deeply, but I also suspect witchcraft.
The Motivation Mirage
I’ve dragged a yoga mat out of the cupboard, intending to do my 100 push-ups a day or some mobility work — though motivation often waves goodbye the moment I lie down on it. Then I just play with the dogs instead. My kettlebell sits in the corner, silently judging me — I talk to it sometimes: “Yes, I see you. Don’t roll your eyes at me.”
My takkies mostly double as dog toys or get pressed into service for weekend park walks, or the quick run downstairs and out front when I hear the Checkers Sixty60 bike hoot — damn, I forgot I placed an order. Those dog walks are easy to do — my animals practically run the schedule, one dog scratching my head, the other licking my nose as soon as the sun rises, giving us no choice but to join them. Motivation guaranteed.
And then there’s the nightly routine: I have to pick both dogs up off the couch to take them to bed. They literally wait for me to say “sleepy time” and instantly turn their little bodies into position to be carried upstairs. Do stairs while carrying two Yorkies (a few kgs each) count as a workout? Asking for a friend… and for my glutes.
The Gentle Realization
Maybe self-care isn’t about doing things you don’t enjoy. Maybe you’re a runner and love that — but maybe, like me, you prefer other ways of moving. There’s no need for the pressure of “HAVE TO WORK OUT TODAY.” Some days, self-care is just looking in the mirror and saying, “Thank you, body. I see you. I appreciate you.”
That said, even a little movement counts — moving your body releases those feel-good chemicals, endorphins and dopamine, that make you happier. Stretch, touch the floor, reach for the sky, open yourself up, and show your body some love. Small, consistent acts of movement are also a way of saying thank you to your body for making it through half a century (and then some).
Somewhere between chasing “before and after” photos and trying to fit into old jeans, I forgot the most important part: this body has carried me through everything. It has carried three children and, through that, I have the best gifts life has given — a granddaughter and a grandson on the way. It has held me and my child after she gave birth and lost her little one. It has survived the heartbreak of almost losing a daughter. It has stood on the podium of a few fitness competitions, jumped out of airplanes, and supported this head full of chaos and shoulders that have sometimes felt so very heavy.
And it’s not just me. All women, all humans, carry the weight of their struggles — grief, joy, exhaustion, triumph — and their bodies keep them moving, quietly showing up every single day.
Some days, I lift that kettlebell like a feather. Other days, I just make it to the kitchen without tripping over my own feet.
Either way, I showed up — and that’s what really counts.