What Four Years Will Do to a Body — and Why She's Still Worth Honoring

As hard as it is for me to share, I just had to — because I feel like it could help someone. These things are hard for me to say out loud. But I have always been about reality, and I'm not going to stop now.

I was watching a video of myself at the gym recently. And the first thing I noticed — before I could stop myself — was how far away my body is from where it was. From where I want it to be.

That familiar sting. You probably know it.

But then something else kicked in. Something quieter and steadier. And it said: girl, honor her. She's been through some things.

So that's what I'm going to do. Honor her. And be honest about why.

The Last Four Years Have Been a Lot

It started with my mom.

She began to decline cognitively, and slowly, I became the person she trusted most in the world. Her anchor. Her safe place. Her constant. I wouldn't trade a single moment of that — not one. But I'd be lying if I said it didn't cost me something.

Watching someone you love slowly need you in a completely new way is one of the most quietly exhausting things a person can do. There's no rulebook for it. You just show up, day after day, and you give whatever you have, and sometimes you give what you don't have, because she needs you and you are hers.

And then came the hardest day of my life. Being with her as she left this world. Holding her hand. Doing everything I could to make sure she wasn't scared. Loving her all the way to the end.

I didn't get much time to breathe after that.

Then Came Another Loss I Didn't See Coming

For ten years, my gym lived on my mom's property.

If you've never had something like that — a place that holds two things you love at once — it's hard to explain. It wasn't just a gym. It was the place where I built something real, surrounded by her. Where I could look up from coaching a class and see her at her kitchen table working on her puzzle. That space had her in it.

When she passed and her property was sold, the gym had to move. And I want you to understand: that wasn't just a logistical challenge. That was another goodbye. Another layer of grief wearing a different outfit.

But I made a decision. If I was going to move, I was going to move. I went from 2,500 square feet to a 10,000 square foot building.

And if you've never scaled a business by four times overnight, let me tell you what nobody talks about. It's not just more space — it's more of everything. More overhead, more equipment, more staffing, more liability, more decisions landing on you before you’ve had your coffee. The pressure is relentless. You pour yourself into it because you have to. Because people are counting on you.

And I did. I showed up every single day

And somewhere in those years, life added a few more lessons I hadn't planned on. The kind you don't talk about much. The kind you just quietly file away, pick yourself up from, and keep going.

And that's exactly what I did.

And Then We Chose Something New

With my mom gone, the thing that had kept us rooted to that land — that beautiful, rural stretch of road where I had built our home more than twenty years before — wasn't there anymore.

I want you to understand what that house meant. I didn't just live there. I built it. I designed it. I general contracted it. I watched it go from plans on paper to walls and windows and a life. And for all those years, I was just .7 miles from my parents — close enough to be there when they needed me, close enough to be there at the end.

That house held everything.

But Martha and I looked at each other and knew. It was time.

So we sold it. And we started looking for what came next.

What came next turned out to be exactly right. A condo in a beautiful setting — gardens, neighbors, a community that welcomed us in like we'd always been there. We didn't just find a place to live. We found a place to belong.

And I love every single minute of our life here.

That's not a small thing. That's everything.

Then I Sold the Gym

And when the time came, I knew it in my whole being.

I had done what I was meant to do there. I felt it — not as defeat, not as giving up, but as completion. As a woman who started something from nothing and saw it all the way through.

Let me tell you what that something was.

In 2004 everything in me said you can do this. So I did. I started with a small garage gym built onto my house — and yes, that was part of the plan from the very beginning. I had a vision and I trusted it. Over the next twenty-two years I poured my life into that business and into every single person who walked through the door trusting me to help them become a healthier version of themselves.

I took that garage gym to a 10,000 square foot facility with over 80 members.

I am so proud of that. I am so proud of what CrossFit I.F. stands for — integrity, community, and support. And I am so deeply grateful that the new owners are carrying every bit of that forward. It's in good hands. The right hands.

So I closed that chapter with my whole heart full.

Twenty-two years. And then it was time for what's next.

And Then Came Retirement

Nobody prepared me for how good this would feel.

After twenty-two years of my schedule belonging to everyone else — early mornings, late nights, members, staff, operations, decisions — my time is finally, completely, mine.

I want to sit with that for a second. Because if you've ever run a business, you know that it doesn't just take your hours. It takes your mental space, your weekends, your quiet moments. There is always something pulling at you. Always something that needs your attention.

And now? Nothing pulls. I get to choose.

I serve on the grounds committee for our condo community — and I genuinely love it. It's such a small thing on paper. But there is something deeply satisfying about pouring care into the place where you live, about being a contributing part of a community just because you want to be. Not because it's your job. Because it's your home.

I walk with Willow every day. If you know me, you know Willow. And if you know Willow, you know those walks aren't just exercise — they're a reset. Fresh air, a happy dog, and the kind of quiet that lets you actually hear yourself think.

And then there's CrossFit. Four days a week, I show up at CrossFit I.F. — not because I have to, not because I'm proving anything to anyone, but because I need it. It keeps me strong. Physically, yes — but also mentally and emotionally. In this phase of life, strength isn't optional. It's the foundation everything else is built on. So I show up, I scale what I need to scale, I wear the knee brace when I need to, and I do the work. Because that's what this chapter requires and I am here for it.

And Martha. We are exploring and enjoying each other in a way that a busy life doesn't always make room for. We are present. Truly present. Not rushing to the next thing, not half-listening while mentally running through a to-do list. Just here, together, building this chapter side by side.

This is what I worked for. All of it — the hard years, the losses, the long days, the lessons learned — they were all pointing here.

And here is really, really good

She's Just Getting Started

So when I watch that video of myself at CrossFit I.F. — the one that started all of this — I don't see someone who has fallen behind.

I see a woman who lost her mother and loved her all the way to the end. Who held a hand and said goodbye to the person I was connected to my whole life. Who packed up a gym that lived on sacred ground and started over. Who built something from a garage to 10,000 square feet and poured twenty-two years of her heart into it. Who got knocked down and got back up anyway. Who sold her business, sold her home, and chose something new with her whole heart.

And then showed up at 8am and lifted a barbell.

Here's what I know now that I didn't fully understand before.

The hard chapters don't break you. They build you. Every loss, every ending, every moment you had to dig deeper than you thought you could — it was all doing something. Shaping something. Preparing something. You don't see it while you're in it. You can't. When you're in the middle of grief or stress or seasons you didn't see coming, it just feels heavy. And it is heavy. I'm not going to romanticize that. But on the other side of all of it? You find out what you're made of.

I found out I'm made of the kind of stuff that keeps showing up. That honors the body even when it's humbling. That chooses joy on purpose. That builds a new chapter with the same hands that held everything together through the hard ones. And that is not a small thing. That is everything.

So wherever you are in your story — whether you're in the thick of something hard, or just beginning to find your footing on the other side — I want you to hear this: You are not behind. You are not broken. You are not too far from where you want to be. You are exactly where you are supposed to be. And the fact that you're still here, still trying, still showing up?

That's not nothing. That's the whole thing.

Here's to the next chapter. For both of us ✨