#45 No Progress, No Problem

In praise of loose commitments

“Why am I doing this to myself?”, a friend asked after enumerating everything on her plate: She’s enrolled in a gym program, preparing for her first half marathon, and managing her family’s bakery — a business she’s been meaning to grow and promote more on social media — all on top of a full-time job.

“Plus,” she continued, “I joined a book club where I haven’t been able to read the book because I don’t have time.”

I probed more, playing therapist as we often do for each other, until she cracked her true conundrum: It wasn’t so much the weight of her load that was bothering her, but her progress—or lack thereof—across all those commitments.

My friend and I are in the same gym program. A few weeks earlier, she told me she aspired to have my response whenever I had to miss a session to tend to other obligations. She hated it when that happened to her, she said, while I would be like: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

To be clear, it’s not that I’m completely unbothered — it does suck when I have to skip the gym! But I see why this struck her. She knows we’re alike in drive and ambition, so the nonchalance seems uncharacteristically me, even to me. An overly familiar part of me deeply relates to her frustration over the pace of her progress. That part of me, I imagine, is rolling her eyes and shaking her head with her arms crossed in disbelief at the freewheeling, irregular gymgoer that I am today. I thought you were committed!, She’d chide me. What about your dream bod? Your fitspiration? Where did that shameless #BalikAlindog2020¹ energy go?

But that’s exactly why I no longer take it hard on myself for “failing” to prioritize the gym: Those are no longer my goals. Today, I’ve come to terms with the fact that, amidst my current priorities, the most I can ask from myself is to show up.

To hit the gym whenever I can. As often as I can.

On a rare, blessed week, I can go thrice. (I mean, who is this gym rat?)

But sometimes — like last week — I can’t go at all.

Perhaps my nonchalance is born from my attempts to allow myself more grace these days. But I think there’s more to it than that, a broader shift in my definition of what makes a commitment valid or worthwhile.

For the longest time, my standard of commitment was colored by the gift-curse of my need for achievement (nAch): Committing to something meant committing to reach peak performance or mastery or, at the very least, some society-validated milestone. All heart or not at all! Go hard or go home! Do it religiously! RAISE THE BAR!

Lest you steep in the stagnant waters of your Own. Wasted. Potential.

But growing older really humbles you — what with its blatant reminders that we are all horribly limited in our personal resources, that ravenously pursuing excellence in one thing means severely curtailing our presence in other things, and that to be a holistic and happy human being, we must tend to a variety of things that are arguably equally worth our precious time and attention.

Case in point. Last year, in an attempt to live a less scattered life, I established my five core values to live by: Creativity, Meaningful Work, Love, Kindness, and Health. Every time I journaled, I would write these five values in the upper right corner, like some shorthand rubric for which my subconscious would filter my choices and actions. At its best, the practice was clarifying. But at its worst, it was tormenting. I couldn’t escape the same nagging feeling my friend felt that I wasn’t making marked progress in any of those obligations. It’s funny because I genuinely thought five was a small enough set to streamline my life. But five still seemed too much. And yet, what was I supposed to drop?

Everything was important.

And I was excellent at nothing.

Somewhere along the way I realized I had no choice but to negotiate. For my health, I let go of any hard goals — no expectation to make those secret abs come out or to achieve a pull-up or to set a new PR — and told myself I’d be content with going to the gym, however irregularly.

The goal was as simple as this: Maintain exercise in my life.

That eye-rolling, head-shaking part of me wants to ask: That’s it?

My most recent gym pic

A couple of years ago, I tore my ACL and meniscus. Both full tears. I had surgery, and then for my rehab, I chose Moro Lorenzo, a renowned clinic in a renowned sports center frequented by renowned college and professional athletes. Despite its distance from my house, I was adamant about doing my rehab there because, true to nAch form, I wanted an elite environment. I took pride in getting the same care and guidance as peak performers, and it lessened the guilt from knowing I wouldn’t be able to do any other physical activity for the time being.

At the time, I was working in my first job: fieldwork in the beer industry. And since happy hour doesn’t start until mid-afternoon, my day began after lunch and ended when nightclubs would have just opened their doors. Drinking beer was as part and parcel of the daily grind as writing my to-do list, the bottle often paired with Pork Sisig swimming and glistening in oil or Spam Fries breaded and deep fried to the most satisfying crunch. (It was… an indulgent industry.)

So I spent my mornings in the clinic, two to three times a week, working with both a physical therapist and a strength and conditioning coach. It took me nine months—three months longer than the average rehab time—to pass my hop test.

Today I wonder: If I didn’t have rehab then, given my work-is-life, first-jobber energy, the irregular work schedule, the nightlife events (it was part of the job!), and my own finicky preferences (I used to think going to the gym was the most boring way to work out), would’ve I carved space to exercise on my own volition? I don’t know.

Took my PT and S&C coach out for a beer after graduating from rehab!

I think about this now, six years later, as I go to the gym and hear my coach and gym friends recognize my fitness level. Obviously, I’m not as fit as I was in my high school cheerleader heyday, but my body hasn’t forgotten the things I trained hard for then: my balance, my mobility, the way to activate my core. But if I keep using my past self as my benchmark and my narrow, unforgiving notions of commitment as my standard, I’d never be able to celebrate myself for what I’ve been able to do over the years: I’ve stayed active.

For all that my torn ACL took from me — time, money, physical and emotional energy — that’s the one thing I can be grateful for: It forced me to do something for my health at a time when I might’ve easily allowed it to fall by the wayside.

Since then, my fitness or health “plan” has had no clear shape, no hardcore commitment, no consistent regimen. But I’m proud to say that I’ve always found ways to show up, come back, and squeeze in exercise in whatever form or frequency.

It’s been liberating to realize the rewards of firm commitments fulfilled gently. As it turns out, that’s the beauty of lowering the bar: you can keep holding onto it.

1. “Balik Alindog”, is the Tagalog version of bringing your sexy back (lol).