highlights

So I went offline for 2 weeks. You probably didn’t notice because I’m sure tattooed girls who lift averagely and say ‘cunt’ a lot are a dime a dozen. But just so you’re aware, I deleted social media and stopped giving a fuck who was creeping on my shit, how many likes I was getting, and who had unfollowed me. Honestly, it was like a noisy AF radio was suddenly turned off. Like remember when you used to be able to smoke inside at bars (what a time to be alive) and you’d step outside, ironically to have another durry, and the fresh cold air would basically pierce your tar-ridden lungs with its freshness ?? The feeling can also be likened to that Seinfeld episode where George stops having sex and he turns into a genius. Now I haven’t had sex in forever either so maybe that’s a contributing factor, but basically I started having all these THOUGHTS, and they weren’t about my Instagram story. They were about important things, like shit I wanted to write about and places I wanted to visit, people I wanted to see, not just *like* their photo on Insta but actually physically be in their company and share an actual experience. I stopped caring if looked fat while I was lifting coz the only people to see my lifting videos were me and my coach, and there’s a long list of technical faults he can focus on before resorting to commenting on my gunt situation. In fact I long for the day that my lifting is so flawless he has to resort to critiquing my appearance just to have something to say.

Earlier this year I fell down so fucking hard I didn’t know how I was gonna get up again. It was like I shit myself at the top of a staircase and then fell down it so by the time I’d reached the bottom I was totally covered in shit and also OW coz I fell down the stairs. Oh and literally everyone I knew witnessed the whole ordeal. Despite all of the work I had been doing over the past few months to improve myself and strengthen my mind and body it was like I may as well have been huffing fly spray on the couch while watching Gilmore Girls for the past 6 months. No matter how much I kept trying to grab hold of anything (eg a barbell)  to help me up it was like some cunt had taken away the stair rail and I’d manage to get halfway up only to slide back down in my own shit again. I’m not even exaggerating, it was fucked. I was fucked. It took some amazingly patient and supportive people in my life to help me up, clean me off, and tell me that everything is going to be ok and we love you, but for fucks sake, sort your shit out.

For several weeks after this much needed intervention I lurched wildly between over and under-functioning in an attempt to find some way to make the shit staircase stop. I would do things like not go to work because I was mentally and physically exhausted and couldn’t stop crying, but then spend 3 hours training, or go back on Tinder. I felt like an empty sack of human skin that someone had scooped all the filling out of. I was a deflated, hollow, husk of a person. At some point between the tears, obsessively weighing myself and my food and 9.2 hours on Instagram a week  (seriously, check your battery percentage, it’s terrifying) I realized that the key to re-filling the shell of my being was to actually USE all of the mental strategies I had spent the better part of the year working on. Actually use my gratitude diary and set my daily intentions and listen to podcasts and take. a. fucking. breath. So I dusted off The Daily Stoic, cleared my whiteboard of it’s unrelenting training schedule, deleted all social media and turned off all my notifications. I signed up to a yoga studio and found a psychologist. I started taking a day off, not just off work but off training and off my life. A day that I allow myself to do whatever the fuck I want, whether that’s an activity with someone I love (eating counts as an activity) or spending the day alone binge watching Suits and trying new recipes (DM me for the game-changing Breakfast Loaf).

Those who know me will know I’m very much an all or nothing person. This is both a blessing and a curse. When I decide I’m going to do something, I fucking do it, but I then become ridiculously obsessed with whatever that thing is and have to basically wean myself off of it by replacing it with another habit, and then the cycle begins again. This kind of unrelenting self analysis and subsequent self awareness has been a result of a lot of ‘me time’, spent away from social media and thinking about how my mind works and how I can reap the positive affects from this facet of my personality. Basically I am currently dedicated to discovering how I can absolutely max out on self improvement and make my life golden as fuck. I think the most important thing I’ve learnt, now that I’m (tentatively) making my way back up the staircase, is that the reason it’s so important to develop this awareness and build this golden stair rail of mind skills is so that when shit is hard, it’s there for you. It’s easy to be all ‘the obstacle is the way’ and ‘focus on what you can control’ when you’re lifting well, you get a new match on tinder, and broccoli is two dollars a kilo. But what if it’s two dollars a HEAD,and you get ghosted by someone you were SURE was going to be The One, and your 80% power snatch looks like dick. 

Given my recent shit/stairs experience and how long it took me to get back up,  I wouldn’t blame you if you were to take none of my advice.  There are a lot of good things out there on Instagram and that’s supporting your fountains, gaining education, and building networks with like-minded people who inspire you and make you want to be better. All I’m saying is, there’s more to life than your highlight reel and I’ve discovered these non-post-worthy moments are worth just as much as the PR’s and new-apparel selfies. You give power to what you focus on, and from now on, unless you inspire me, teach me or I give a fuck about you personally, you’re no longer going to grace my feed.