I’m back at the gym. As I write this, post-workout, I have reflux, I feel exhausted, and I’m embarrassed at how unfit I’ve become. Two-and-a-half years ago I was running 10km three times a week goddamn it! And now I’m starting all over again. Except now it’s harder because Stupid Cancer, stupid thyroid, stupid debilitating effects of treatment.

Erin, my new trainer, puts me through my paces. I struggle. It is DIFFICULT. I try to focus on my goals. I’m getting show fit! Half-marathon! Cycle to work! I am a glistening warrior crushing my goals.
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The goals feel overwhelming. I am not a glistening warrior. I am a sweaty heffalump with swamp butt.

I try to focus on the present moment. Just get through this crunch/squat/plank/minute of pedaling! A little voice says to me, “Come on! You’re a cancer survivor! You can do this!"

I cannot do this. Remember how all through Stupid Cancer I just wanted to curl up and die? 

It is grueling, but I get through the session. Erin is encouraging and lovely. Everything burns.
I have a shower. I eat food. The post-workout endorphins kick in, and my inner voice says “Next round bitchez.”