10k, 6:39 AM: A Fitness Journey Where I did not Get Fit

I want to able to tell myself and others that I am a self-disciplined hero who runs a 10k the first thing every morning to pursue my body and mind goals. I’d like to be glamorous or, at least, appear to be so. But most of the time, I am just a vulnerable being who struggles to contain my guilty impulses with over-exercise and diet. And that’s okay.

Every morning, my alarm would go off at exactly 6:39 am. I was always excited to roll off my bed so that I could start the beautiful day with running and a shower before heading to class. After the madness of the college application season, I relished at the newfound freedom to keep some time to myself, to nourish my body and soul.

If it was warm outside, I would run around the lake and the forests while taking in the tiniest details that the nature had to offer: the dews on the leaves that made my shoes a bit wetter with every step, the mist in the morning air that smelled of fresh dirt and grass, the angle with which the sunlight refracted into the lake, the swan staring at me alertedly as I intrude on its territory… If it was too cold or rainy, I would head to the school gym and run to the clunking rhythm of the old treadmill as its gears struggled to move (my school was probably too broke to buy a new treadmill). If it was rainy and the gym was closed, I would venture in the rain to search for the whereabouts of the gym keys, often getting drenched before I could hunt it down. I didn’t really mind, though. The emotional gratification of improving my speed and distance was far greater than risks of getting a cold the next day.

Indeed, my running records improved at an astonishing speed. In the January when I first began my training, I could barely run for 30 minutes or a 5k. It made me feel so dead afterwards that I would almost fall asleep in the first morning period (not that I especially cared). By the end of the month, I could already increase it to 36 minutes. Soon, I could run for 45 minutes without feeling tired at all. Running every day had yielded far greater fitness than the half-minded training with the Cross Country team in the three years before that.

Then the 10k hit unexpectedly. I was just running on the treadmill as usual. By the 5k mark, I suddenly felt that I had so much energy left in me that I could go on for another 5k. So I did. When I got off the treadmill, I must had been floating on the gym floor amidst the dumbbells and machines that seemed to be weightless in the air as well. I ate a tiny salad for dinner and the next morning, I was surprised to find my stomach completely flat, almost showing some abs.

I hadn’t paid attention to it before, but my body shape was transforming at an even faster pace than my running abilities. Now, when I fully examined myself in the mirror, the changes to different parts of my body hit me all at once: my waist was getting smaller, thighs thinner, cheekbones more protruded. I really liked it. Not to lie, I thought I looked damn good.

Many months later, I would recognize this as a turning point when I stopped working out just for its joy began slipping into the quagmire of body image. But I slipped so slowly and quietly that I didn’t even realize I was slipping until much, much later, when I was far too deep in.

At first, it was just the innocuous thought that I should hit a 10k every day — to burn a few hundred extra calories. To tone up muscle definition, I meshed in some abs/legs training or HIIT after my hour-long run. Hitting a 10k requires a lot of energy, rest, and frankly, luck. Of course, my body wasn’t always in the right condition for it. On some mornings, I would find my back and leg so sore that it was a feat to get out of bed. That’s when scare tactics came in handy. I could tell myself that if I didn’t complete a 10k, something bad would happen to my body, all the while oblivious of the actual damage that the run could do to my body when I’m not ready for it.

Next, my attention was drawn to the diet plans on Xiaohongshu where some girls lost 20 pounds just after a few weeks of eating next-to-nothing. I knew that those methods were extremely unhealthy, but I naively thought that I could begin by getting closer to that diet without ever going to the extreme. That meant cutting out the tarts, ice-cream, and boba that I used to indulge in unapologetically as a reward to my hard work.

I noticed that I lost a few pounds quickly. My friends noticed it too. Suddenly, even the girl who barely waved back at me in the school corridor was asking me how I got my abs. Apparently, the teachers noticed it too when they enjoyed their early breakfast by the lake, watching me running around and around. They smiled at me extra during class.

When I first started my exercise routine, it was purely for myself. I never expected that it would make me perceived as more attractive, motivated, or self-disciplined. When I was crowned as those things, I wanted more of it. The excitement with effortless results emboldened me into the slippery slope of more and more diet restrictions.

Want dinner? Just toss a salad with a few drops of vinegar as the dressing. Carbs? A big no-no, except for a banana in the morning. To fend off the hunger, I bought a giant bag of tomatoes from Walmart every week to eat whenever I felt like snacking.

Nothing happened. Literally, nothing.

I checked whether the scale was broken for a few times, but it was correct. My weight was exactly where it was last week. And last last week.

It must be because I wasn’t doing enough.

Conveniently, school was out in the summer, giving me all the time in the world to pick up what I was “lacking” int he gym. I decided to allocate three hours each day to the gym: 1 hour of weight training, one hour of pilates for abs and core, followed by one hour of running or spinning.

Still, I enjoy every second of the work out, especially the end. When my last ounce of energy is spent and the last sweat shed. And all the toxins and stress leave through the pores, leaving my body empty. Nevertheless, the shadow of weight loss loomed in every minute of plank and every step on the treadmill. I fought the thoughts of weight loss so hard, telling myself that I am good enough already, that I am pretty and healthy just the way I am. This “positive thinking” seemed easy: every time I walked by the floor-to-ceiling mirrors in the gym, I absolutely loved the way I looked, how the muscles were muscles growing in the right places. But somehow, there is always something more.

And I was actually gaining weight.

When we do not have enough nutrients to sustain the daily expenditure, our bodies go into “starvation mode”. After all, our bodies cannot tell if we are entering a diet routine or starving in the middle of Sahara desert. Desperate to preserve its energy, the body tries to store any food that we take in as fat and would not release it easily during workout. Hence, weight gain. This is something I would find out later on that explained my lack of progress. How I wish I had seen this before.

Or rather, I wish I had permitted myself tosee this fact. I have heard many, many times about the perils of over-exercising and dieting. But that couldn’t be me. I would get defensive whenever anyone suggested that I was spending too long in the gym. After all, I didn’t want anyone to think that my “self-discipline” was just an obsession — especially myself.

What I also wish I’d recognized is how all this is making the body more prone to injury.

In fall 2018, I went hiking with some friends and sprained my ankle really badly. I practically wasn’t doing anything dangerous. My ligaments and joints felt so weak that it felt as if they provided zero support to my body. One bad step and I was falling to the ground like a doll whose one feet has just been chopped off (sorry for the grotesque imagery)… 

I couldn’t exercise at all for two months. The punishment carried a sense of poetic justice. I got into the injury partly because of over-exercise, and now I couldn’t get myself off the stairs to do the laundry. How fitting.

Still, what the f**k am I going to do going through two months of this sedentary s**t when I couldn’t stand the few days when my period comes and I have to stay at home? Errrrrr.

By the end of the two months, I looked myself in the mirror and kept a scream from coming out of my throat. I was so bloated from head to toe. Most of my muscles disappeared. I had no abs. No butt. No nothing. Just a whole body full of glycerol and fatty acids.

I looked like this. Actually, the picture does not do it justice because it is the already the best one out of the dozens I took to capture a good shot until finally giving up.

Surprisingly, I wasn’t that sad or angry. Sure, I looked like I had just walked out of an 80s horror movie, but I could be redeemed in no time. After all, I already know the drill and I could go right back to it. Start every morning with a 10k and be sure to eat a salad for dinner, and before I know it, I would be that skinny and glamours Cher again. I could actually love that part of myself… that is, until I become obsessed and worried whenever I stepped on a scale. Until I start exercising so much that I cannot keep up with school work. Until another crash happens that destroys such fundamentally unsustainable routine.

Never before had I wanted to acknowledge that I had been compulsively over-exercising. Or that my diet was borderlining an eating disorder. If I admitted what was actually going on, all the veneers of wellness and fitness would be broken; I would just be left the way I am, a vulnerable human-being who struggles to contain her guilt of eating and exercising, among other things.

I actually wanted that so badly.

I closed my eyes and felt myself relieved of the year-long lie that I no longer want to keep.

I wish I could write an article on how that mindset miraculously turned my fitness journey around. It didn’t. But at least, I could promise myself two things:

1. Exercise not for the results. Just for its own sake.
2. Keep a routine that you can actually stick with.

The first one means opening my heart to every pulse of painful pleasure when my shoes pound the pavement and seeping in the bursts of energy that the run gives me throughout the day. As elevating as that feels, the second promise means that I develop a schedule that I can keep up with however busy I am (so definitely not every day or anything close). For now, that means exercising 3-4 times a week, but doing it consistently whether I am having the chillest holiday of my life or stressed out of my wits during finals.

For the six months since, I have sticked with it.

As for my body… It is far from the best it can be. Which is amazing, no matter how other people think of it. Because exercising is about the mind and not the body. Japanese author and distance runner Haruki Murakami once wrote in his memoir “What I Talk About When I Talk About Running”: 

“I’m often asked what I think about as I run. Usually the people who ask this have never run long distances themselves. I always ponder the question. What exactly do I think about when I’m running? I don’t have a clue.”

When you exercise, you create a mental void. You don’t have to think about anything. Just take everything in. Breath everything out. Until all of your old self is exhaled out with the air and you can begin anew. Absolved.

2019.7.14 in New Orleans, Hurricane Barry