Trigger warning: mentions critical illness
When I found out I had breast cancer, I also found out that exercise reduces recurrence by 83% - a strangely comforting source of power when you feel you have lost control over your body.
That was it. In my mind, it was keep moving or die.
I know there are no guarantees - but I need to know I am doing everything I can to see my future grandchildren (or the numerous grandcats my youngest offspring keeps promising).
So I started. I’d never been “fit” in my life. I hadn’t run since boobs arrived at 11 along with the pre-teen angst of my looks being under the microscope.
Ha funny realisation as I write - boobs stopped me running then, and boobs made me run now.
Just over a year in, I've had a revelation.
Fitness isn’t about looking good. It isn’t about abs, or tight leggings, or before-and-after photos. That’s what we’re taught. But when I stood at the bottom of Gedimina's Towers' 200 steps and thought, “Eh, no problem,” I realised the truth.
A year ago, those steps would’ve left me wheezing halfway up, clinging to the railing, praying for an escalator. This time? I bounded up. No drama. No gasping. Just legs, lungs, life.
I checked my holiday step count: I was averaging 25,000 a day. 21,000 just on travel days. And I hadn’t even noticed.
That’s fitness. Not the mirror. Not the scales. Not the six-pack. It’s being able to travel, see everything, dance all night, and still climb mountains - literal ones, metaphorical ones ... 200 step ones.
Turns out, the best body to have isn’t one that looks good. It’s one that lets you live.