This Body is Bullshit

I went back to Pilates today.
Live, laugh, feet in straps. (Pilates, not the gynecologist, let’s be clear.)

It felt really good to move again. It was my favorite instructor, Caroline, and being in her class is like getting a warm hug and a gentle push at the same time. She’s one of those rare souls who sees people. She remembers everyone’s name, limitations and preferences. She makes you feel like you matter. I want her to be my aunt. Or maybe adopt me. Or just let me borrow her energy when I’m dragging. She’s that kind of magic.

But in the middle of class, this little wave of sadness crept in. Because here I am again, starting over. After being off for five weeks, my strength, balance, and flexibility feel like strangers I used to know. It’s frustrating. My body constantly resets without my permission. But I’m showing up. I’m trying. I’m gonna keep showing up. My next goal is 250 classes. I think I’m at 137 now. Slow and steady. And sweaty.

It’s been a bit of a melancholy week.

We lost a friend this weekend. A good man. And even though I wasn’t close to him, it’s rocked our circle. That kind of loss lingers, settles in like a heaviness you carry around. It’s made everything feel just a little foggy.

Work has been chaotic; too many things, not enough hours. And on top of that, my stepmom’s out of town, so I’ve been keeping an eye on my dad. I love him. He’s sweet. But it’s hard. Watching someone you love slowly lose grasp of what’s happening to them is its own kind of heartbreak. He came over for dinner last night, and while it was lovely, it’s just… sad. There’s no roadmap for this stage of life, and I feel like I’m winging it on an emotional rollercoaster.

And then this morning, I heard on the news that scientists have made huge progress in treating mitochondrial disease. They’ve developed a breakthrough treatment for babies. Amazing news, but also gutting. Because my nephew, who passed away last year from Leigh’s disease, won’t benefit from it. It’s too late for him. And I can’t stop thinking about the families who fought so hard, only to watch the cure come after.

Same with my cousin Kirby. She had Sanfilippo syndrome. My aunt and uncle helped pioneer research for that disease. They started one of the first foundations. They fought and advocated and built something from scratch, and now there are human trials. We are this close to a cure. But Kirby’s gone. And that feels so unfair. So bittersweet.

Sometimes I worry that this blog, this whole journal, is just one big sad, self-indulgent pity party. That I’m dragging people through the mud with me. But the truth is, this is my therapy. This is how I am processing. This is how I keep going. People don’t have to read it. But I need to write it.

So yeah, today my thoughts are kind of all over the place. From Caroline’s encouraging voice in Pilates to the ache of grief, from dog hair on the couch to medical miracles that came too late… it’s just a lot.

But I’m here. Still showing up. Still stretching. Still trying to live, laugh, and get those damn feet in the straps.