By the time January started, I was already doing the things.
I was working out five days a week.
I was increasing my running mileage.
I was waking up earlier to work before work.
This wasn’t a list of aspirational resolutions or a “new year, new me” fantasy. It was momentum. A rhythm I’d built and felt good about. Proof, at least to myself, that I was doing what I was “supposed” to do to be healthy, disciplined, and on track.
And then January interrupted me.
A shoulder muscle spasm took all exercise off the table—no running, no workouts, no real movement beyond what was absolutely necessary. Not long after that, I badly cut my finger. Like, really badly, turning what might have been a short recovery into months of limitation. As February starts, I’m still not even close to fully healed.
Suddenly, the structure I’d built—the habits I relied on—was gone.
What surprised me wasn’t just the frustration. It was how quickly my focus narrowed to everything I couldn’t do anymore. The workouts I was missing. The progress I was losing. The sense that something essential had slipped away.
My thinking became relentlessly critical.
You’re falling behind.
You’re losing ground.
If you were more disciplined, you’d figure this out.
Sitting with that long enough revealed something I hadn’t wanted to see.
Many of my goals weren’t really about feeling healthy.
They were about feeling worthy. Of love. Of respect. Of happiness.
Somewhere along the way, I learned that discipline equals value. That productivity equals goodness. That consistency earns approval…maybe even love. And if I could just keep doing all the right things, then I’d be happier, healthier, more settled. Safer.
When my body said no, it didn’t just take exercise away. It took away my usual proof that I was doing enough.
Without the ability to optimize myself, I was left with a quieter, harder question:
Who am I when I can’t push through?
There hasn’t been a dramatic breakthrough or a neatly reframed lesson. What there has been is an invitation (one I didn’t ask for) to sit with rest I didn’t choose and limits I didn’t plan on. To notice how quickly self-compassion disappears when performance does.
I don’t have a new list of goals yet. What I do have is a clearer understanding of what success can’t be anymore.
If my definition of success doesn’t leave room for people, rest, and joy, it’s not success.
What if I could be proud of how I hold curiosity, self-care, and my ability to uplift others and receive help in return as I endure life—, rather than believing endurance means sustaining it endlessly on my own?
For now, that curiosity feels like enough.
Here’s to 2026,
Jake
