Image Credit: Geneva O’Hara

It was on a night out in late November when several things started to come together in my mind, in a way they never had before. I was sitting with a group of my girlfriends when one of them raised the point of how much she enjoyed going to the gym – not because of how she wanted to look, but because of how much she enjoyed being strong. I had heard this sentiment echoed before by adults growing up and into my adolescence, but it never resonated with me like it did that night. Maybe it was my third drink talking, but I found myself agreeing with a fervor; not just with my words, but with my soul. There were several pieces of advice I’d been given that I recalled when I thought back on this moment, that I hoped could carry me through the season I dreaded most.

In regards to exercise, I had always heard my mother relay her mantra: “Healthy, fit and strong.” Growing up very conscious of my appearance, it wasn’t always easy to implement this in my attitude as much as in an empty promise. Finally, at 21, I was committed to making that promise whole. I had come to realise over the past several months that loving yourself is an act of resistance. I’d seen a joke online recently: “Why do I work out? A weak proletariat is easier to control.” Hyperbolic, of course, but the joke was only funny because it was true in essence. I wanted to be able to carry my own grocery bags; I wanted to be able to run farther and faster; I wanted to be able to move furniture; and I wanted to be able to do everything I needed to without the help of a man. Suddenly, going to the gym felt radical. It felt freeing; like I could do it for myself, and not as if someone were waiting outside to tell me how great I looked as a reward. I wanted to feel “healthy, fit and strong.” Perhaps if loving myself was an act of protest, I could at least put up some flyers and commit to the cause.  

I read an article recently with a brilliant title: “How to get smart again.” It was a series on Substack dedicated to un-rotting your brain, something I’d been anxious to do since I realised I was having trouble recalling what I’d done the day prior without checking my planner. The takeaway I decided to implement first was to start reading regularly again, and take my hobbies offline. As a journalist, student and remote worker, it was easy to fall into spending hours on my laptop each day – but it wasn’t an excuse. What could I be doing in my free time, that I often felt I didn’t have, but most certainly did? I returned to reading every day again, resolved to get in the gym, started meditating and – perhaps most importantly – kept creating, even if just for myself. I wrote songs no one heard, stories I never published, journal entries, and letters I sent to my family abroad. I learned how to cook, sang sappy ballads, and danced in my apartment to my favourite bossa nova classics. I had not mastered the art of self-expression, but I was happy to begin the journey. For the first time in a long time, I felt “smart again.”

The final piece of advice that had become my own little mantra was: “Once you know who you are and what you want, the less things will bother you.” I carried it with me every single day; and when I encountered slow walkers on busy streets, people who acted unkindly, or anything at all that bothered me, I simply thought: This doesn’t affect my end goal. Knowing the “end goal” was the crux. Who I was (or at least, who I strove to be): Kind, strong and optimistic; and what I wanted: to live in a city I loved, marry my fiancé, and have a career I was passionate about. When I really thought about it, I realised that the advice I’d heard was true. There were no circumstances, or words from someone else, that could remove from me the things I nurtured from within. 
I headed into winter with an open mind and an open heart. I wanted to learn and create as much as I could, I wanted to be as kind as possible, and I wanted to achieve my goals – no matter the size. This winter is the season of gratitude, in all its forms: grateful for life, for relationships, for peace, and for a personal power that only I can create. It’s not a reinvention, a la each January’s “new year, new me” cheers; it’s a restoration of the things we always were, and perhaps have left ignored. This winter is for myself – and for you, it’s for yourself. This winter is our own.