There comes a time in every person’s life when they decide to turn a corner. To rebuild. To rise from the ashes. For me, that moment arrived one early Saturday afternoon when I pressed play on an Apple Fitness+ upper body strength workout and essentially broke myself in 20 minutes flat.
Now, I should back up.
Over the past many months, life had done what life often does: it rearranged my priorities for me. First, I did something knarly to my back in early December. Call it a strain. Call it a gentle reminder that my warranty may have expired. Second, I became a full-time caregiver for my mom as she neared the end of her life. There were the long plane rides to and from Chicago. The days spent standing and cooking in her tiny kitchen with a barely functional faucet, an ancient stove, and no dishwasher. And of course, the sleepless nights, the four-hour medication cycles, and the constant mental load of it all. Somewhere in the middle of that, my own fitness quietly slipped to the bottom of the priority list. Add in the physical nature of caregiving—bending, lifting, twisting, and standing in ways my back clearly wasn’t designed to handle—and, well, here we are.
By the time I finally decided to pick up a dumbbell again, several months had passed. Which, I reasoned, wouldn’t be that big of a deal. After all, I’ve worked out before. I’ve been strong before. How much strength can one person really lose in a few months?
Let me tell you, a lot. You can lose a lot.
I picked out a 20-minute Apple Fitness+ workout because, well, 20 minutes seemed reasonable. Manageable. Respectable but not excessive. The trainer on my iPad smiled encouragingly, with that cheery-but-slightly-sadistic tone fitness instructors have perfected. The music was upbeat. The dumbbells were light. Everything about it felt achievable.
For about six minutes.
It was around the pushups that things took a turn.
Now, once upon a time, I could do pushups. Not Olympic-level, but certainly a respectable number. That day, I managed two. Two full pushups. On the third, my arms simply quit. They didn’t shake or wobble dramatically. They just refused. Like a toddler being asked to pick up toys—utter defiance.
So, I transitioned to knee pushups, which fitness professionals like to call “modified” pushups as though that makes it sound less humiliating. I managed a few of those before even they seemed impossible. Still, I finished the workout. All 20 minutes of it. And I felt oddly triumphant as I set my dumbbells down. Sure, my muscles were shaky and my breathing resembled someone recovering from a particularly emotional Hallmark movie, but I had done it.
The real surprise, though, came later.
Roughly six hours later.
By evening, I noticed my chest tightening. By bedtime, I was keenly aware that taking a full breath was becoming an Olympic-level challenge. And by the following morning, I had officially entered what I can only describe as delayed-onset catastrophe.
Every movement hurt. Every single one. Turning the steering wheel? Painful. Reaching for a coffee cup? Agonizing. Putting on deodorant? A full-contact sport. I discovered muscles I didn’t know I had and found that each one of them had organized themselves into a protest union. Even laughing was painful—though admittedly, I didn’t have much reason to laugh since I couldn’t physically do it without wincing.
For four full days, my upper body waged war against me. I was stunned. I mean, I’d heard about DOMS (delayed onset muscle soreness) before. I’ve even experienced it before. But this felt personal. Like my muscles were angry at me not only for making them work, but for daring to assume they could handle it after months of respectful retirement.
This, apparently, is what it means to attempt fitness when you’re staring 50 in the face.
I spent those days in a daze of soreness, periodically Googling things like “can you pull a muscle breathing?” and “how long should post-workout soreness last before you call for medical intervention?” It felt absurd. I hadn’t run a marathon. I hadn’t even done a full spin class. I’d done twenty minutes of what the trainer cheerfully called “a good little upper body burn.”
It burned, alright. Ached even. And kept on aching.
Of course, I also used this time to spiral a bit about the bigger picture. Because here I am, supposedly training to bike across the United States. Across. The. United. States. Thousands of miles. Multiple mountain ranges. Days upon days of riding, carrying gear, lifting bikes, repairing flats, climbing hills. And yet after one modest strength workout I could barely open a door.
How, exactly, is this going to work?
The math does not math.
The recovery was slow. Careful. Cautious. The kind of recovery where you think you’re ready, but your body politely disagrees. Over. And over. Again.
Every time I reached for something—whether it was a glass, a seatbelt, or my dignity—I thought the same thing: I am so far from ready. I am so far from strong. This feels impossible.
But then, somewhere in between the soreness and the discouragement, I remembered something I’ve had to relearn over and over again: starting over always feels impossible at first.
This isn’t my first time starting from zero. Or more accurately, starting from negative something. I’ve done it before. After injuries, after life interruptions, after grief. Each time it feels ridiculous. And each time, slowly, it gets better.
This—what I’m doing now—is simply the price of re-entry.
The truth is, my body’s been through a lot this year. It carried me through some of the most emotionally and physically taxing months of my life while I cared for my mom. It nursed itself through a strained back that derailed my workouts for months. And now, finally, it’s trying to remember how to move again. How to lift again. How to rebuild again.
It’s not weak. It’s just out of practice.
And also, yes—older. Which means recovery takes longer. Gains come slower. The window for progress is narrower than it was twenty years ago. But it’s still there.
When I finally was able to take a full, deep breath again—a full four days later—it felt like some tiny victory and slight relief. Not just because the soreness had subsided, but because it reminded me that this process works. Slowly. Painfully. Frustratingly. But it works.
Strength isn’t built in one perfect workout. Or even ten. It’s built in the showing up. The deciding to try again even when your arms still feel like wet spaghetti noodles. The scaling back when you have to. The knee pushups. The embarrassingly small dumbbells. The willingness to look a little ridiculous for a while.
If I’ve learned anything over the past year—through caregiving, through grief, through injury, through this relentless attempt to prepare for a cross-country ride—it’s this: the big things aren’t won in dramatic gestures. They’re won in the messy, mundane middle. The part where nothing feels impressive and everything feels hard.
That’s where the real work happens.
So, yes—I am nowhere near ready to bike across the U.S. right now. Not even close. But today I can do slightly more than I could last week. And if I keep showing up, in a few months I’ll be able to do even more.
And eventually, God willing, I’ll be standing somewhere in the middle of Kansas or climbing a ridiculous hill in Virginia or soaking up the coast of Oregon with stronger legs, stronger lungs, stronger arms—and, let’s be honest, probably still some sore muscles.
But I’ll be out there. Moving forward. One pushup at a time. Even the knee ones.