Why Fitness is More Than Having a Six Pack
Each and every year on my birthday for as long as I can remember, I’ve had the jarring realization that I don’t feel any older. I feel no older today than I did on my 14th birthday, yet somehow, 15 years have swiftly passed. Perhaps my parents weren’t wrong as they reminded me that “youth is wasted on the young.”
Somewhere down the road, it seems the motives behind pursuing one’s health and fitness were compromised by the sole pursuit to achieve an aesthetic. The picture of health evolved to be synonymous with a whitened smile, a glowing tan, a protein-filled shaker bottle, and a chiseled six pack.
I’m no different - who doesn’t want to look good naked? However, my motives in pursuing my health, though clouded at times, remain the same.
My parents were brilliant role models byway of what not to do. It’s through learning from them that I became deeply passionate about the necessity of taking care of the one home we’ll be stuck in for a lifetime - our bodies. I was a silent observer in each of their relationships with their bodies and food. Each uniquely complicated. Each uniquely altered by their childhood homes, mental health, and means of coping.
If my dad wasn’t obese, he was smoking - and if he wasn’t smoking, he was obese. The only way he knew how to carry the weight of his discontentment with the way his life turned out was through the overuse of substances - one of which was food. From diabetes to heart disease, his health took a turn for the worse in his fifty’s. COPD overtook his lungs as cancer overtook his body. He spent close to ten years leading up to his death in and out of a hospital bed, unable to move or do very much for himself.
He was a gruff, burly, nearly six-foot-tall man. He wasn’t perfect, but he had pride; pride that he had to let go of many years before he finally let go of his life. He chose to fight - no doubt made easier by his stubbornness - with a startlingly positive demeanour. We never heard him complain. He survived the hostile takeover of his organs, until the cancer overtook his bones - rendering him unable to sit upright.
That was the day everything changed; the look in his eyes included. I saw my father finally allow the weight of his sickness to depress any life he had left in him. He passed away a few months later, with the official cause of death listed as “chronic lifestyle disease.”
My mother’s story is similar in many ways, though shaped by different circumstance. She struggled being overweight in adolescence, and in her early 20’s was prescribed “diet pills.” It was the 60’s - and those diet pills are what we commonly know now as amphetamine. They worked like a charm; and thus began her chronic pursuit of weight loss at the cost of her health.
In the 29 years I’ve known her, two things have remained constant. She’s always on a diet, and she’s perpetually unhappy with her weight; either disappointed by the gain of it, or desperately fearing that she might again. It consumed her mind and bled out into her life. She never saw the point in exercise - other than as a tool to yield weight loss. The accumulation of her lifestyle choices have not repaid her with many happy, healthy years through aging. Instead, she suffers from chronic pain, rendering her unable to get off the sofa or go for a walk without relying on the use of pain medication. Her daily habits, in combination with her weight, have put significant strain on her body - including her joints. The worst of which has led to, oddly enough, bone degeneration in her spine. Not all unlike my father’s.
As their child, I realized quickly that I did not seem to bear any weight on their choices. That I was not only a silent observer, but a silent casualty. My voice remained unheard in begging them to pursue their health - if not for their sake, then for mine. It made no difference whether I spoke, yelled, or rented airspace. Neither was ready to choose discomfort over repetition after repetition of momentary pleasure. I didn’t want to be the adult who lost both their parents by the age of 30. I didn’t want to celebrate the big moments in life, like getting married or having a baby - only to realize I couldn’t share that joy with my mom or dad. More than anything, I didn’t want my parents to become no more real than the memories that live in my mind. I didn’t want them to be reduced down to the stories I tell, not unlike this one.
This is not meant to be some sad diatribe of my family history. Rather, the remonstrance of a child who bore witness to the disregard of her parent’s health. I miss one of them dearly, and I worry for the other one daily.
The fact is, we’re aging. It doesn’t feel like it, but from the moment we’re born, we’re aging. That naive invincibility fades away as each year comes and goes. Our inherent humanness reveals itself in every waiting room at the doctor’s office. Our vulnerability grows more recurrently apparent. It’s jarring to acknowledge our own fragility; however, to acknowledge our potential need for dependence may somehow be worse.
It doesn’t go unnoticed that these are odd considerations for an (albeit, anxious) 29-year-old. The vast majority of my friends, clients & peers are concerned more with the now. The goals we discuss are typically in the realm of performance or fat-loss. They’re thinking about the likelihood of washboard abs - not their ability to get up from the floor. They’re thinking about what their bodies will look like 10 pounds from now - not their ability to help themselves off the toilet. There’s nothing wrong with enjoying your youth and the health that comes with it. However, if you shift your perspective ever so slightly, you’ll realize that there is a far greater outcome of adding weight to the bar each week, than your appearance.
Through the time I’ve spent with many elderly people - from my grandparents, to my great aunts & uncles, to the lovely aging population they reside with, and all the way back to my parents - it seems there are a few common fears they share. First and foremost, each of them discovered pride in their independence; the relinquishing of it seemingly akin to a lost sense of identity. Moreover, they were perturbed by the potential of becoming a burden to their families. It seemed that their dependence, based on their declining ability to help themselves, worried them more than the loss of self; both body and mind. Last but not least, came the fear that they might not be there at all.
“Youth is wasted on the young” proves wiser than it reads. We all too commonly see ourselves through the lens of invincibility, casually paying no heed to our humanness. We take our miraculous bodies for granted. Either we don’t prioritize nutrition and any form of movement, all in the name of Netflix. Or, we firmly restrict food, physically push ourselves to the brink, while verbally abusing ourselves for never quite looking good enough - all in the name of aesthetics. In either case, we seem to pay no heed to the fact that the actions of today have a funny way of impacting the outcomes of tomorrow.
Whether you’re someone who is desperately vying for the physique of your dreams, or someone who is struggling to find any interest in self care - one thing holds true. We should all be so lucky to age, and we should do so in gratitude for the body we’ve each been given. The care you put into your health today, might translate to the ability to carry your grandchildren in the future. The respect you show towards your body today, might translate to the ability to do the little things, like walk without pain, as you age. The intention you put into making your personal wellness a priority today, might lead to maintaining your independence or your sense of self. The actions you take today, as you come to terms with your fragile human existence, undoubtedly impact the outcomes of tomorrow. They may just mark the point of difference between living long and living well.