“When I first looked at it I was like, ‘Girl, that’s not enough,’ and then I realized that you are writing a plan for someone in cancer treatment.”
Will and I have been friends for more than half our lives and talking with him is just easy. We are in the same field of work and we have this shorthand between us sometimes that means I don’t have to explain every thought behind what I am doing.
He follows me on social media and when I started sharing the workouts I was doing he was confused by the light amount of work at first. Rightfully so. He and I have lifted together and we usually like to test the limits of our capabilities together and push to see what the absolute max we can do is. Because we are both trainers. And having someone else who is an expert stand beside you and say, “Yep, you’ve got it,” hits differently than a regular member of the gym.
Why I Kept Going to the Gym During Cancer Treatment
I started sharing my workouts during cancer treatment as a way to hold myself accountable to going to the gym. It felt like a way for someone else to have eyes on me and keep me motivated to go. Because the dark cloud that is chemotherapy, surgery, radiation, and all the things in between could leave me feeling so depleted on any given day that getting up and going to the gym was the last thing I wanted to do.
It was also one of the best things for me, mentally, physically, and emotionally. The gym has always been my happy place. The solitude of my headphones in a busy room gives me something that few other spaces in the world can. I find comfort in knowing that there are other people beside me working to better themselves. Next to me. Parallel to me, but not with me.
There is something about being alone in a crowded room that brings me peace. And whether I am showing up to do a really hard lifting session or just the basic movements I needed during treatment to keep me going, it felt the same. I could be exactly me in that room. No one needed me. I wasn't a wife, mom, sister, daughter, friend, chef, chauffeur, business owner, or person with cancer. I was just me, lifting some weights.
When Everyone Says You're Doing Great, But You Don't Feel Great
I think it is one of the places that I have struggled with the most after cancer treatment. This desire to feel anonymous in my lifting again. I work out in a space where I am also a coach and I find that that can feel like a lot of pressure. Perhaps that I have put on myself, because honestly, maybe no one else is watching. But nonetheless, I feel this pressure to perform at the best of my abilities. And in this post-cancer season of my life, my best is not that of a top athlete.
It’s challenging to express that and have it be received well. Because the people around me only see me as “doing great”. I hear those words again and again and feel hushed by invisibility. Doing great compared to what? Compared to someone who went through what I went through? Sure. Compared to the expectations someone has for a cancer survivor? Absolutely. But compared to the body I lived in before? Compared to the athlete that I remember being? Compared to what movement used to feel like in my own skin? That’s where “doing great” gets complicated.
I tried physical therapy, thinking that they would understand. The therapist I saw said, “You have more range of motion than most people so I am not sure what you want me to do with this appointment.” Maybe he meant it as reassurance. Maybe he genuinely didn't know what to do with someone whose baseline was so different from the patients he typically saw. Either way, I left feeling like, “What now?”
What do you do when the experts around you don’t know how to help? Because your body has been trained differently over your lifetime and doesn’t fit the mold that is their normal patient. What do you do when everyone around you only sees that you are “doing great” and you just want to fall apart because the one thing that used to feel SO good suddenly feels so different?
Grieving the Athlete I Used to Be
It’s where I have been sitting for the last several months and I don’t know that I have the right answer yet. For a while I was attending the classes that I always did. And I was strong. But the conditioning piece at the end would send me into a tailspin for days that I just couldn’t get out of. Over time it got better as my endurance improved, but I still don’t feel like I have returned to my old levels of performance.
And so, those classes slowly started feeling less like home and more like a reminder of what I have lost. Every time I went to class and was beside people celebrating new milestones I just wanted to run screaming from the building because I was just chasing feeling normal again. During treatment it felt like I had this very visible bubble around me that said “it’s okay, she’s going through something right now” that gave me free rein to take it easy. To do a lighter workout and have it be okay. Since finishing treatment it feels like that bubble has dissipated and I’ve been left feeling exposed and raw.
I have this standard for myself of where I should be. And I can still lift heavy things. Heavier than a lot of people. I am still incredibly capable. But the way my body moves isn’t the same as it used to be. And I find myself loathing the deficits of this new body. I miss the way I used to move. The grace and beauty that came along with years and years of practice. I miss being able to do something without thinking about it. I miss being able to demonstrate movement perfectly. I miss feeling at home in my body.
Now I have to think about everything before I do it. Am I going to hurt my chest by jumping up onto that bar? Am I going to make a fool of myself trying to demonstrate something that I used to be able to do but can’t anymore because I didn’t think it all the way through? Am I going to pay for my error for days because of a simple mistake?
It started to feel like this never-ending cycle of telling myself no over and over and over again. I always had to be careful with myself. Like I am a delicate flower that has to be treated ever so gently to keep her safe. And I started resenting it. Eventually I stopped going to those classes.
Learning to Listen to My Body After Cancer
I considered going back to Tae Kwon Do, something that I used to love doing. The repetition of the movement and the ability to turn off my brain and just follow instructions is appealing to me. I find that I make so many decisions all day long and am constantly thinking deeply about so many things that what I want in fitness more often than not is to be able to show up, have someone tell me what to do, to do it, and go home.
During treatment enough was just showing up. Now, enough is harder to recognize. I am so used to “create the plan, follow the plan, see the results” that showing up and honoring where my body is day to day feels like I am not doing enough.
It feels like I am backing away from the fight. Like I am giving up instead of pushing through.
As if listening to my body today and saying, “It’s okay to do less,” means that I am worth less as a coach, as a person, as a survivor.
And it’s a lesson that is taking time to learn.
Maybe I'm Doing Enough
I keep thinking about what Will said, “Girl, that’s not enough.” Because I think I say some version of that to myself all the time. I look at my training and think it isn't enough.
And then I actually look at what my body is doing.
The handstands. The rope climbs. The balancing poses in yoga. The heavy weights.
And I realize that maybe I am doing alright.
Maybe I am doing enough.
Fitness isn’t always about doing the hardest thing.
Sometimes it is about doing enough.