There was a time when I felt invincible.
From the ripe ages of forty to forty-six, I was in the gym six days a week — throwing weights, chasing PRs, feeling strong, lean, and in control. I often was chastised for not taking enough rest days. CrossFit gave me something I hadn’t ever felt: power. It became my therapy, my identity, my proof that aging didn’t have to mean slowing down.
But lately, my body tells a different story.
Aches that linger. Fatigue that doesn’t lift as quickly as it used to. Joints that protest instead of perform. Somewhere in the last year, I’ve had to face the quiet truth that I can’t train the way I once did — at least, not without listening more closely to what my body’s whispering beneath the noise.
And in that space — between the athlete I was and the woman I am becoming — I’ve gained weight.
Again.
It’s humbling, this return to heaviness. Not just physically, but emotionally. There’s a certain grief that comes with watching your body shift, even when you know it’s still carrying you, still showing up, still trying its best.
For a while, I fought it — the slowing down, the softness, the extra weight that crept in with each skipped workout. I told myself I’d “get back” to where I was. But the truth is, that body — that season — is gone. And maybe that’s not a loss. Maybe it’s an invitation.
An invitation to learn a different kind of strength — one that isn’t measured in barbell plates or rep counts, but in patience, grace, and the willingness to start over.
Aging has a way of stripping away illusions. It shows you what’s real — what’s sustainable, what’s kind, what’s true. I’m learning that my worth isn’t found in the reflection of a leaner version of me; it’s in the resilience of showing up when it’s hard. It’s in honoring a body that’s carried me through every phase, every heartbreak, every lift, every healing.
These days, I move slower. I rest more. But I also listen better. I’ve started to find beauty in gentler movement — in walking outside, stretching under the morning sun, drinking water like it’s holy, and trusting that this middle-aged version of me still holds power, just a softer kind.
Maybe the middle isn’t about losing what was but learning how to love what is now and what can now be.
And if I’ve learned anything from this middle soul journey, it’s that transformation doesn’t always look like progress — sometimes, it looks like your standing still and there is a peace in that.
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