Small run. No direction.
Just quiet streets and the echo of my own breath.
I began to run.
A way to release the static in my head.
At first, I wasn’t disciplined.
I’d run for a few minutes and be completely out of breath.
My lungs burned.
My knees weren’t used to the impact.
My thoughts raced faster than my legs ever could.

Still, I didn’t quit.
Something inside me knew: this mattered.
So I kept showing up.
Not for speed. Not for perfection.
But for softness.
For release.

By 2022, i feel something clicked.
I started craving the rhythm.

Someday after work, I’d lace up my shoes and run laps around my rent house in BSD.
Three times a week. Sometimes more. Sometimes less.
I’d time it with the golden hour—when the sky turned soft,
and the air felt like it forgave everything.
On weekends, I went to GBK to feel different vibes. 

The ritual always the same:
headphones in,
Renaissance by Beyoncé on repeat,
I start running, moving,
with heart syncing to the beat.

I know that I wasn’t just running.
I was remembering what it meant to feel alive.
Those runs felt like magic.
Like freedom.
I miss those moments, honestly.

Later that year, I stepped into a gym for the first time.

I was 60kg.
Underweight, unsure, and overwhelmed.
I didn’t know where to start.
Only that I wanted to grow.
I wanted to be stronger.
To take up space.
To feel full in my own body.

I watched youtube videos.
Took notes.
Failed quietly, then tried again.
I didn’t have a trainer or a plan.
Just a question:
“What would happen if I didn’t stop?”
So I stayed.
Week after week.
Rep after rep.
Set after set.
I made mistakes.
Rested too long.
Came back anyway.

Fast forward, 2025, I’d gained 7kg—
not just weight,
but stability.
Structure.
Peace.
A deeper sense of who I was becoming.

Running became my exhale.
Gym sessions became my therapy.

Every lift, a reset.
Every drop of sweat, a letting go.
I walked in heavy.
I walked out lighter.
Clearer.
More me.

Now, I track it.
Since early 2024,
I’ve counted my workouts like quiet reminders:
you’re showing up.
you’re trying.
you’re doing it.
And every time I see progress,
I feel proud.
Gently proud.
The kind that doesn’t need to be loud.

I used to look in the mirror
and search for what was missing.

Now,
I catch a glimpse after a workout,
and pause.
Not because I look “better”—
but because I look present.
Because I see someone
who didn’t quit.
Someone who’s healing.
Someone who’s becoming.

I feel more confident now.
Not just in body,
but in spirit.
It’s subtle.
But it matters.

In 2021,
everything felt heavy.
Mentally.
Emotionally.
The kind of heaviness you don’t know how to name.

Stress came easy.
Sleep didn’t.
But making movement a part of my life
softened everything.
I laugh more.
I think clearer.
I carry less.

Bad days still happen—
but they don’t consume me anymore.
Now, I move through them.
With breath.
With grace.
With sweat.

There’s no end to this.
No finish line.
No before-and-after.

Just a body
that keeps showing up.
A heart
that’s learning how to stay open.
A mirror
that reflects a little more peace each time.
I miss the early runs in BSD.
The GBK weekends.

The quiet magic of golden hour and music that moved my soul.
But more of that is waiting for me.
And I’ll be there.

Because this journey,
It isn’t done.
I’m still becoming.
Still moving.
Still rebuilding.