Do You Want to Feel My Muscles?

We basically live our lives with the same version of ourselves in our heads. Whatever deficiencies we decide we have as kids somehow seem to follow us right into adulthood. At least, they did for me. Apparently, nobody told my childhood insecurities they were supposed to move out when I did.

I grew up in a very physically fit family. My dad’s entire career was in sports. My mom, for most of her life, was beautiful, stylish, and active. My sisters and brother played sports. Then there was me. I was “the musician” of the family.

Don’t get me wrong, I was good at it. I excelled at it, and it became a big part of my identity. But somewhere along the way, another part of that identity formed too. I was the one who wasn’t athletic. I wasn’t strong. Honestly, I couldn’t tell you whether someone actually told me that or whether I created that story entirely in my own head. Either way, I believed it.

You know what’s interesting? I never really questioned whether it was true. I just accepted it as part of who I was and then proceeded to live up to it. I can remember being in my late teens and early twenties when my dad and one of my sisters would jog every day, and my mom belonged to a walking group. I decided I was going to be one of those people too, so I tried jogging. I hated pretty much every second of it and abandoned the whole idea as soon as humanly possible. Which, of course, only reinforced what I already believed about myself. See? Not athletic. Not strong. Please point me toward the piano or clarinet.

Along with weak, there was another label I had given myself. By an early age, I had already decided I was fat, and the relentless teasing at school certainly didn't help. Somewhere along the way, I had started connecting the two. I wasn't athletic, I wasn't strong, and in my mind, my weight was just more evidence that I was somehow less capable than everyone else.

The funny thing is, I wasn't fat. By 5th grade, I may have been developing a little earlier than some of the other girls my age. In fact, when we moved to a new state in fifth grade, I walked into my new classroom and the kids thought I was the substitute teacher. Nothing says “welcome to your new school” quite like a room full of ten-year-olds assuming you're there to take attendance.

But looking back at pictures from that time, it's so obvious to me now that I wasn't fat. I almost can't reconcile the girl I see in those photos with the girl I remember being. Because if you had asked fifth-grade me to describe herself, I'm pretty sure “fat” would have made the list. Probably somewhere near the top. Right alongside it would have been “weak.” I had somehow taken two things I believed about myself and turned them into an identity that would follow me for decades.

It’s amazing how something can become part of your identity long before you’re old enough to question whether it was ever true in the first place. Then, because our brains are super helpful like that, we can spend the next several decades collecting evidence to prove ourselves right and I did.

Fairly early into my twenties, the weight started piling on and my body eventually caught up with the picture I already had of myself in my head.

If you had asked me back then, I would have very honestly told you I would do anything to lose weight. Anything! But even when I did lose weight, I was still carrying around the same identity. In my head, I was the weak, fat girl. Losing weight could change the number on the scale, but it didn’t necessarily change the person I believed myself to be.

There were times when I lost weight, a couple of times significant amounts of weight. But it always came back. Maybe just as importantly, exercise, strength, and fitness were never really part of the equation. Losing weight was something I desperately wanted to do. Becoming strong wasn’t even something I considered.

The idea that I could be physically strong or, God forbid, athletic had been out of my head for so long that it didn’t even occur to me as a possibility. Athletic people were other people. They were my dad. My siblings. The people who voluntarily went jogging and didn’t spend the entire time wondering when it would be socially acceptable to stop. Or, even more mind-blowing, the people who actually enjoyed it. Those people were not me. I had been telling myself that story for so long, I didn’t even realize it was a story anymore.

So now we get to the aha moment of all of this. Two years ago, I started losing weight and eventually I lost about 140 pounds.. What was different this time though?  Honestly, maybe nothing. Maybe in another year I will be back where I started. I don't think so though , but I really don't know for sure. I certainly am never going to feel "safe" or "cured". I spent too much of my life overweight to ever feel like its not just waiting around the corner for me.

But this time, I decided losing weight wasn’t enough. I needed to get my body moving. I needed to get stronger. It was important for my physical health, but I was starting to realize it might be just as important for my mind. So I started slowly.

When I say I started slowly, I mean I literally walked circles around the downstairs of my house. Inside only, of course. I didn’t need the neighbors witnessing whatever this was. Eventually, I ventured outside to a walking path at the beach that had benches every little bit along the way. The first time, I barely made it to the first bench. I sat down, took a break, and then headed back to the car. But little by little, I made it to the next bench. Then the next one. Eventually, I could skip a bench altogether!

Around the same time, I started working with a trainer at the gym. The sessions were only 30 minutes, which, when you factored in talking, changing exercises, and me probably finding creative ways to stall, was really more like 20 or 25. It was doable. I am still incredibly thankful for that trainer because she got me moving, made exercise feel possible, and, much to my surprise, actually got me excited about it.

But here’s the thing. I still hadn’t really changed the way I thought about myself. I was losing weight. I was walking farther. I was going to the gym. I was unquestionably getting stronger. But in my head? I was still the weak girl trying to exercise. Sure, I had made progress. But when it came to actually seeing myself as strong, I had barely cleared the “completely out of shape” bar.

About this time, my mom had her stroke, and within a matter of two weeks, we made the decision to move across the country. Life went to completely insane almost overnight. Everything changed in an instant. I was terrified that the momentum I had built was going to disappear right along with my new smaller, slightly stronger body. Because I knew this pattern. Life gets crazy, exercise is the first thing to go, then I start eating, and suddenly six months have passed, and I’m right back where I started, tired, overweight, and hopeless.

So I made a commitment to myself. No matter what happened, I was going to keep moving my body. Finding a new gym was actually one of the first things on my list when we moved. Not finding a doctor, not finding a new hair salon and not even finding a grocery store. Somewhere along the way, I had become a person who moved across the country and immediately looked for a gym. Who even was I?

I found one. Pretty easily… it popped right up on all my social media and seemed targeted just for me… funny how that happens lol. Maybe I got lucky. Maybe the universe stepped in and led me there. I’m still not entirely sure which. Either way, it has been life-changing. I went from my very manageable 20 or 25-minute workouts to a hard hour long workout. For the first month or so, there were days I could barely sit down afterward. Apparently, this new gym had not received the memo that I was the delicate musician. But bit by bit, I got stronger.

Remember, strong wasn’t even a word I used to describe myself. So imagine my surprise one day when I got out of the shower, started innocently putting on lotion, and felt something in my shoulder. Wait. What was that? A muscle??  Like a real muscle??

Now, let’s be clear. No one walking past me on the street was thinking, “Wow, look at those shoulders.”  There is honestly so much loose skin that those muscles are buried deep, but they are there! I wasn’t suddenly going to be mistaken for a bodybuilder and I’m pretty sure no one else could even tell it was there. But I could feel it and that was huge.

I had never felt muscles in my shoulders before. Not when I was 25. Not even when I was 15. Yet here I was at 59 years old, standing in my bathroom feeling my shoulders like I had just discovered a new body part. I kept touching them just to make sure I wasn’t imagining things. Nope. Still there. At 59 years old, for the first time in my life, I was getting muscles.

Maybe even more surprising, I was starting to wonder if that girl who had spent her entire life believing she was physically weak might have been wrong. That’s really where this whole blog came from.

I couldn’t stop thinking about it. What if this thing I had believed about myself my entire life was wrong? Not a little wrong. Not something I had simply outgrown.  But seriously just plain wrong…a big old lie?!

Because apparently, I wasn’t incapable of being strong. I had just spent almost 60 years believing I wasn’t. Once I realized that, a much bigger, and slightly terrifying, question showed up: What else have I thought about myself that was equally just as wrong?

What other things did I decide about myself when I was 8 or 12 or 15 years old and then carry around for the next 40 or 50 years like they were facts? What else have I avoided because somewhere along the way I decided, “That’s not who I am”? That’s the part I can’t stop thinking about.

Because if I can discover muscles in my shoulders at 59, maybe there are a few other things about myself I haven’t discovered yet either. As terrifying as that idea is, I also really like that thought. So I think I’m going to start questioning some of these “facts” I’ve been carrying around all these years. I’ll let you know what else turns out to be completely made up. I’m starting to think younger me may not have been the most reliable source.

FYI, one of my new favorite pastimes after this discovery became asking my husband and daughter if they wanted to feel my muscles. They are visibly annoyed every single time I ask and, to date, neither one has taken me up on the offer. Frankly, I find their complete lack of interest in my newly discovered muscle situation a little unsupportive, but the invitation remains open should either of them come to their senses.

Plot twist... apparently some of the things I’ve known about myself my entire life need to be fact-checked.