You know that scene in LEGALLY BLONDE when Elle Woods says, "Exercise gives you endorphins. Endorphins make you happy. Happy people don't shoot their husbands."? 😆 I love that scene (along with the bend and snap, but that's a story for another time).
I had gotten into a funk. And by funk, I mean depression. I had really struggled with depression and anxiety throughout adolescence, but in my twenties I started going to the gym, started writing again (I discovered my passion for writing in high school... hm... maybe that's why I'm still sick there in my head?) and I was able to wean off of my meds.
It was a good run for a while. I was writing, reading, got a new job, exercising regularly...
I don't remember how it happened. But I got a new job and bought a house, the house too far to go to my gym regularly, especially between working and the communte. So, my gym membership expired, I worked tons of overtime, and then I vegged out on the couch in my downtime. I thought I was happy.
Then, I had my son and dealt with post partum. It wasn't severe, thankfully, maybe more like the "baby blues," but I was crying almost every day, felt sluggish, and found myself slipping into my former, self-destructive mindset.
Last year, around this time, I realized the trajectory I was on and I didn't like it, didn't like myself and the excessive weight I had put on (think like 50+ pounds!), when I stumbled across a weight loss post from a girl I went to high school with. Now, I say "girl," but she was a force -- she would enter a room like a boom box on max, messy bun and sweats (but in that preppy way that worked), a smile so broad you couldn't help but smile back, with a sharp-wit humor and a shining confidence like a pinnacle of light in the darkness. She was part of the Smurph, Hickey, Bowes group in high school, which, to me, and through my lens, was *The Group*. I didn't envy them. I admired them. I wanted to be them, a part of this group of intellectual, sporty, outgoing rays of sunshine. But that was not me.
I was the quiet one, the girl with her head down, passing "under the radar" to use Ms. Cav's words. I thought I was okay with it: after all, I didn't want to be seen, didn't want to draw attention to myself, so I stayed quiet, learning more about the grooves on the floor than the eyes of my peers.
Fast forward to early 2020, when the pandemic was still brand new, when people had divided into two speculative camps: COVID-19 was either the apocalypse or the flu blown way out of proportion. But I wasn't thinking about the end of the World, just the end of my world, and with tear-stained cheeks, I went against my timid, fear-of-judgment, self-preserving nature and commented on her post. And she reached out to me.
I'm now part of her fitness group, a year into the program, and approximately 45 pounds lighter and leaner. But it's not just about the weight loss. Oh, no, it's about so much more than that. Endorphins, as Elle Woods would say. Endorphins make you happy, and happy people don't mope around feeling sorry for themselves. They do something about it.
During my weight loss journey, my skin cleared up, my nails grew in thicker, but most importantly, I found a renewed raison d'etre. I started reading and writing again, and I actually plotted and wrote an entire novel over the summer (it's a contemporary college romance), from beginning to end without stopping. Of the three other novels I've finished, this was the first that didn't feel like work. It was straight up fun. But those other three were completely pantsed, and I've now learned that I'm a Plantser: plot the basic outline, fill in a few scenes, but then pants the scenes themselves. It's my sweet spot.
So, I saw the pattern: Exercise gives you endorphins. Endorphins make you happy. Happy Dean writes novels.
titsay
theartofmadeline
yousharknotpass
jbbartram-illu
germansingergirl
kaledo-art