The oversized mirror in my bathroom makes it hard not to get a full view of yourself every time you pass it. Last night, I stopped to look at myself before getting ready for bed. It wasn’t a long look, but I did pause long enough to feel something I didn’t expect. It wasn’t disgust, exactly. Or shame — maybe a little shame. Recognition, maybe?
In our adult years, most of us don’t consciously choose to gain weight. I’ve gained thirty pounds made up mostly of Dr. Pepper, donuts, and too many carb-heavy meals.
I didn’t really mean to gain the weight. It just happened. Some of it’s stress. Some of it’s poor sleep. Some of it’s that strange kind of rationalized neglect that says, I’ll take care of myself when I have the time. Which, of course, I never do.
The pause in front of the mirror must have been motivated by an earlier conversation with my wife. We were talking about what it means to love your body. Since her short battle with cancer, she’s had a healthier relationship with that idea than I have. Mostly, I treat my body like a tool I don’t care for. Sometimes, it’s an inconvenience. I wake up every morning stiff from too many hours at the desk. Sometimes it’s my hip — still messed up from an injury eight years ago. Most days it’s my shoulder. Some days it’s everything.
And yet, I keep saying yes to long days and late nights, thinking I’ll “circle back” to my health when the dust settles.
I used to run. A lot. In 2023, I logged more than 1,400 miles — 200 of those in December alone. Running was never about performance for me. It was how I cleared my head, how I remembered what was mine and what wasn’t. There’s something about the rhythm of running — feet hitting the pavement, breathing matching its cadence —that’s always helped me quiet the noise that filled every waking hour.
But somewhere along the way, I rationalized away exercise — the one thing helping me keep stress and anxiety in check — because I didn’t have time. I told myself the work I was doing was more important than lacing up my shoes. That rest, movement, and care were luxuries for people not trying to build something.
And I believed it.
The hard truth I’m coming to grips with is that I’ve spent years chasing what looked like success, giving far too much of myself in pursuit of what I was building. I’ve built things, fixed things, led teams, taken risks, and worn more hats than a closet can hold. I’ve been called reliable, impressive — genius even. I’ve sat at the table and been involved in all the projects, big and small.
And it’s not that I regret those things.
But I’ve also ignored the aches and pains that come from not moving my body in a way it craves. And I’ve spent a lot of time in my head wondering why I don’t feel better — about myself, about the work, about the pace.
Somewhere along the way, I stopped treating myself like someone I cared about.
And I didn’t even notice — or when I did, I actively ignored it.
And really, that’s what’s so insidious about this version of self-neglect. It doesn’t come with a dramatic rock bottom. It looks like “crushing it.” It looks like showing up. It looks like inbox zero. But it feels like trading away the most basic forms of kindness for the illusion of accomplishment.
I don’t hate myself in the way that word usually means. I don’t berate myself out loud or spiral into self-loathing. But there’s a version of self-hate that looks more like indifference. That rationalizes every bad meal, every missed run, every ignored ache as part of the cost of doing something that matters.
But success shouldn’t cost me my relationship with myself.
I’ve told a version of this story a hundred times — that I’m building to provide for my family. That the work means something and is for something greater. That short-term sacrifice equals long-term gain. And there is truth in that. I’m not dismissing it. At least not completely.
But when I think back on those times telling my kids stories at bedtime, or watch the lo-fi “Daddy Movies” I made while traveling — those homemade DVDs with me singing songs and telling silly stories and using poorly crafted maps to show how far away I was — I realize that being there matters a lot more than being impressive.
Success is only freedom if it allows you to live well. And I haven’t been living all that well lately.
Sometimes I wonder what it would take to come home to myself a little more. Not in some guru-on-a-mountaintop way. Just… the basics. More water. Less soda. A walk in the morning before my inbox dictates my mood. A moment to stretch before sitting for fourteen or sixteen hours straight. A lot less scrolling. A little more stillness.
I’m not saying I need to flip a switch and suddenly become the kind of person who posts gym selfies and meal preps on Sundays. Really, I don’t think that’s possible for most people. What I am saying, though, is I need to start being the kind of person who doesn’t always come last on his own list.
Because this is what I know: You can’t outwork your way to peace.
And I’ve tried. For two and a half decades, I’ve tried.
I’ve tried to feel better by accomplishing more. I’ve tried to outrun insecurity by being the guy who never says no. I’ve tried to manufacture meaning by staying busy. But meaning doesn’t live at the bottom of your to-do list. And it definitely doesn’t live in a mirror you avoid making eye contact with at 10 p.m.
The weight I’m carrying is more than physical. It’s emotional. Mental. Spiritual. And while I know thirty pounds isn’t the end of the world — I ran 37 miles (slowly) a week ago — it’s definitely a signal. It’s a quiet knock. A reminder that something’s out of sync.
I’m still working too hard. Still pushing forward. Still building something I believe in. But I’m trying to remember that the point of all this is not to become someone who’s admired from a distance — but someone who can look in the mirror and feel peace. Someone who lives a life that feels kind and sustainable. Someone who treats himself with the same care he gives to everyone else.
Some mornings, that might mean running again. Some evenings, it might mean stopping before everything is finished. Some days, it just means pausing long enough to say: I deserve better than this version of burnout.
Because success isn’t freedom if it comes at the cost of self-respect. And self-respect, I’m learning, starts with the important decision to be on your own side again.
I’m not there yet. But I’m starting to listen. And I’m just beginning to see the sky beyond the canyon rim.
And maybe that’s enough for now.
No comments:
Post a Comment