For more than twenty years, exercise has been a big part of my life. The gym was my happy place. Moving my body wasn’t just about staying fit — it was my way to clear my head, find balance, and remind myself that I could push through challenges. It was also an opportunity to make new friends, compete with them on the gym floor while motivating each -other as well. I enjoyed it. I looked forward to it. It felt natural.
But over the last four years, something has shifted. Some mornings I wake up motivated and ready to get moving, but most days, I can’t seem to push myself through even a short workout. I’ve read books on consistency, tried routines that start with just 10–15 minutes, rolled out the mat, laid out my workout clothes the night before — I’ve done it all. And still, after five minutes, I feel like I can’t go on.
At 45, I find myself facing the very thing I never thought I would—midlife fitness struggles and a loss of motivation.
At one point, I even joined a gym and paid a hefty membership fee, hoping that money would be the motivator. For a while, it worked. I showed up, even if not daily. But after a year of attending only about 15 days each month, I stopped renewing. That was two years ago, and since then, my workouts have been irregular at best.
It’s easy to blame peri-menopause and hormones for this dip in energy and motivation — and maybe that’s part of it. But it’s not just about weight gain or changes in the body. It’s about looking at my reflection and not recognising the person staring back. Not because she looks “fat” but because she doesn’t resemble the woman who used to love exercise, who thrived on the rush of finishing a session – sometimes even doing two workout sessions in a day – one who felt joy in movement. That loss feels bigger than the number on the scale.
The irony is, in other parts of my life, I’m doing well. In fact, career-wise, these last five years have been fulfilling. I’ve had opportunities I’m grateful for, successes that make me proud, and the chance to guide students through important choices. I encourage them to stay consistent, to find resilience, to keep showing up even when motivation feels distant. And yet, when it comes to myself, I struggle to follow the same advice. It’s a strange contradiction — being the one who motivates others, while quietly battling my own inconsistency.
Writing has felt the same. My blog has always been my space to share openly, but over the past few years, I’ve been inconsistent here too. There are days I think, “What’s the point? Everyone’s on social media now, scrolling fast. Who reads long-form blogs anymore?” And maybe that’s true. But even so, there’s something about writing that feels different from posting on Instagram or LinkedIn. It allows me to process, to slow down, to be vulnerable in a way short posts can’t.
So here I am, writing again — not with advice, not with a list of “10 ways to stay consistent,” but simply with honesty. I don’t have this figured out. I’m still navigating this season of life, still trying to understand what consistency means for me now, at 45. Maybe the old version of me isn’t coming back – and that is fine. Maybe it’s about creating a new rhythm, one that fits who I am today.