Kate Didd

An alarm goes off.

Not a dramatic one. Not a cinematic one. Just a regular, rude little sound that says it’s time.

I get up. Bathroom. Gym clothes. Same motions, every morning. Muscle memory, but deeper, like my body remembers before my mind does. I pack my little bag the way someone packs a life raft. Keys. Headphones. Resolve. I’m out the door before doubt has time to stretch.

I don’t know when this became who I am. I don’t know what changed inside me, only that something did and it stayed. Working out used to be a means to an end. Now it’s an anchor. An obsession, maybe. But not the destructive kind. The kind that saves you.

The gym is where I go to think. Or maybe where thinking finally shuts up. I build muscle, yes but I also build a spine. I build discernment. I build patience. I build the version of myself that can sit with discomfort and not self-destruct. I’ve regulated myself in a way that would have terrified my mother. That alone feels like freedom. And joy.

I used to be a runner. Long-distance. Hours at a time. Anything to stay away. Anything to not go home. I ran from my parents. From my brothers. From a marriage that broke me. From a marriage that asked too much. From the weight of being needed by children when I had never been allowed to need anything myself.

Running was escape. Running was survival. Running was proof I could outpace pain.

I ran wild races, borderline unhinged ones. My oldest daughter once ran seven miles with me in my hometown, a whole festival looping past the house I grew up in. Life loves symbolism. Especially the painful kind.

I grew up in a house that looked normal from the outside. Mother. Father. Two brothers. Me, the oldest daughter. You already know the rest. We always do. I won’t say it out loud, because saying it reminds me why I started running. And I don’t need to run anymore.

Last year I made a decision that felt small but cracked my life open: I stopped.

If you want me, catch up.

I planted my feet. I turned around. And instead of fleeing, I built.

I am growing. I am succeeding. I am failing loudly. I am getting back up. Again and again. I grew up on a horse farm, of course I believe in falling, brushing yourself off, and climbing back on with dirt still on your hands.

Everyone starts working out for a reason. Health. Strength. Revenge. Silence. Some people lift to be admired. Some lift to never be touched without consent again.

I lift because anxiety lived in my body like static. Because pressure calms me. Because putting weight on my back feels like a weighted blanket for my soul. The moment the bar is in my hands, the noise stops. Past and future dissolve. There is only breath, movement, gravity, and me, meeting myself without flinching.

I understand addiction now. Not to chaos but to quiet.

Somewhere along the way, my beginner program became intermediate. I lift my own body weight now. I am not fragile. I am not decorative. I am solid. Muscle where there used to be apology. And it’s strange, beautiful and strange, to see people react differently. To be read differently.

I know I’m desirable. But more importantly, I am legible to myself. My voice has changed. My presence lands. I wear the right costumes. Drive the acceptable car. Order the socially approved coffee. I blend just enough. Undercover. Always undercover.

Until I’m not.

I catch myself thinking about The Hunger Games while deadlifting because of course I do. Strength that startles people tends to reveal things. Some men step closer, pretending concern. Others leave. Fragility announces itself. I don’t manage it anymore.

I lift in the morning so I don’t carry yesterday into today. So when I plan my future, I do it with clarity instead of fear. I focus on small, boring habits, the kind that guarantee success because they don’t rely on motivation, only character.

The truth is uncomfortable and glorious: I have achieved everything I’ve ever wanted. Not cleanly. Not politely. But consistently. I have kept a fifteen-year promise to myself, even when no one was watching.

And I like who I am now.

Deeply.

Fiercely.

Without apology.

When I leave the gym, my thoughts move in rhythm. Hope feels practical. The future feels curious instead of threatening. I’m excited to see who I’ll become next.

I’ve been to hell. I learned the terrain. I climbed out carrying gold. I am the golden child and the black sheep, glittered and scarred and still standing.

I don’t run anymore.

I lift.

And nothing that once chased me can keep up.