sent from: London, UK. destination: San Rafael, California, USA

Despite all the bike riding and my best efforts to cut down on sugar, carbs and fat, I’ve struggled with slowly filling out my clothes more and more in recent years. My first decision after my birthday was to join the gym, which is about as last resort for me as you can get.
When picturing an alternate history of my life – don’t you do this too? – the one where I’m in solitary confinement for weeks at a time, I’ve imagined myself to be the one quietly doing push ups and sit ups everyday, getting toned and planning my escape. Of course I wouldn’t manage this for more than a few minutes, 3 half-sit ups later and I’d be staring into my porridge lamenting why me? why me?!
So, I am a couple of weeks into my gym-going routine, being yelled at encouraged by instructors in a way I haven’t been since school, challenged by my inadequacies. Yet, as much as I stare at the floor, wishing to be done, drips of sweat leaping off my expansive forehead, I feel blessed to have a body that can be so exerted, legs to carry me, arms to raise to the sky, breath to take, and breath to give.