This week, the gym officially got serious… or at least it thinks it’s serious.
We’ve introduced a new mode of exercise: machinery. Not the intimidating kind, though—just a small pedaling machine that looks harmless. Add to that our two and three kilo weights (yes, serious, serious stuff), and suddenly we’re doing real work. By 7 PM, we are sprawled on the floor, questioning how pedaling and lifting such tiny things can possibly leave us this exhausted. Don’t ask a physio—they’ll just shrug and say, “You had major surgery.” Thanks. Very helpful.
Protein is back in my life. Morning ritual: Greek yogurt, followed by tins of tuna. Squats are happening too, even if my squats look nothing like they did before the injury. Progress, tiny but real.
The best part? Our gorgeous Aussie stepson is here for the month. Handsome, cool, gym-savvy, and a total tendon expert. Every session with him feels like elite-athlete-level rehab, and honestly, it’s a massive morale boost.
The soundtrack of my rehab has changed as well. Forget the usual pump-up songs—every session now comes with Brenda Dennehy comeback stories. People keep telling me I should learn a language, take up knitting, or “do something productive” while stuck. Clearly, they don’t know me. I can’t sit still—I’m literally chained to this injury. So journaling, blogging, and mental healing are my sidekicks while physio handles the physical.
Everything connects: gut health, mental health, physical health. If my head isn’t in the right place, my body won’t cooperate. Tiny machines, tiny weights, protein-packed breakfasts, and a lot of laughter… slowly, we’re getting there. Exhaustion has never felt so funny—or so productive.
