Kate Didd

(Day 39)

Reflecting on this healing story in life.

Someone once asked me why I chose weightlifting as my outlet.

They expected something poetic. Something healing. Maybe a soft, candle-lit journey back to self.

I said, “Oh, it was petty.”

And not the sloppy kind either. No, no. I’m talking tailored, form-fitting, walk-it-down-a-runway petty. The kind with structure. With vision. With a long-term return on investment.

Let me explain.

If you show any signs of not liking me, I don’t fall apart, I expand. I become… innovative. Strategic. A little whimsical, even. Think of it less like revenge and more like a competitive internship you didn’t realize you applied for.

This all started with my ex-husband’s now ex-mistress, because, you know, men don’t actually want “the other woman,” they want the easier one. She was very committed to being “the upgrade.” Louder. Shinier. Better.

So naturally… I let her try.

Actually, I did more than that, I gave her a full curriculum.

Photography? Suddenly a passion.
Horses? Oh, she loved them.
Modeling? Let’s just say… we have different definitions of “published,” but I support women in the arts.

And the thing is, I didn’t even want those things anymore. That’s what made it fun. Watching someone chase versions of me I had already outgrown felt like donating clothes you never liked but looked incredible on someone else.

Then came travel. Same places. Same aesthetic. Same “accidental” overlap.

So I thought, maybe nature will help. Maybe if I lead her gently into the woods, she’ll find peace.

Now she collects mugs and National Parks.

I have over 100 mugs and 58 parks.

But again… not a competition. (Just… a well-documented observation.)

She said her life was better without kids, freedom and all that. Meanwhile, I built a life where I had both freedom and my children. Turns out, you can have both when you’re not outsourcing your stability.

There were moments, of course, where things got… loud. Like posting my mugshot the day my mother died. A bold choice. Not a good one, but bold.

And still, I didn’t go low.

No body shaming. No cheap shots. No messy spirals.

Just truth. Just, “Hey… this is what you did. You might want to sit with that.”

Because I’ve always played this game with rules. Not for her, for me. Pride. Principle. A little bit of class sprinkled over chaos.

And somewhere along the way… it got weird.

She didn’t just copy casually, she copied intricately. Down to the details. The habits. The rhythms. It got to the point where I started letting things go on purpose just to see if she’d pick them up.

She did.

Every time.

And honestly? It became freeing.

Like here, take it. Take the hobbies tied to versions of me that survived things I don’t live in anymore. Take the identities I had to wear when I didn’t know I had other options.

I don’t need them.

And watching her become happy in things she once resented?

That was the twist.

Because it made me realize something quietly devastating and wildly affirming:

Everything she became… was something I should’ve loved about myself sooner.

She validated me without ever intending to.

And not everyone gets a mirror like that.

Now, this could’ve gone very differently. Two toxic people can absolutely ruin everything. But if one person decides to operate with standards, with restraint, with just enough self-respect to not lose the plot…

Someone rises.

I chose to.

And eventually, I realized something even more romantic in a dark comedy sort of way:

The man?

Irrelevant.

Completely.

Three women ended up understanding him so thoroughly that he became background noise in his own story. He was never the center. He just had main character delusion.

And me? I like data. I like patterns. I like knowing exactly who I’m dealing with.

She ran from that. I leaned into it.

That’s the difference.

She wanted my space.

I outgrew it and handed her the keys.

Because I believe there’s space for everyone.

She believed she had to take mine.

So I built a bigger room.

And somewhere in that expansion… I found the barbell.

Now here’s where the romcom takes a turn.

Because everything else? Replicable.

You can copy hobbies. You can mimic aesthetics. You can build a personality off Pinterest boards and quiet observation.

But strength?

Oh, sweetheart… that’s not a group project.

That’s where the storyline shifts from “Single White Female” to “legally binding character development.”

Because I don’t just go to the gym.

I lift a grown man’s body weight like it’s a casual personality trait.

I have a relationship with discipline that isn’t cute, isn’t aesthetic, and definitely isn’t for public approval. It’s early mornings, heavy reps, and choosing discomfort so consistently that your body eventually says, “Fine. We’ll adapt.”

And yes, size matters. Physics matters. Leverage is real.

But let’s not pretend that’s the whole story.

Because strength, real strength, is about what you demand from yourself.

And I demand a lot.

That’s the part that doesn’t translate.

That’s the part you can’t copy by watching closely or following along.

Because it requires hunger.

It requires consistency.

It requires wanting something enough to suffer a little for it and not everyone has that kind of desire. Some people just want the outcome without the becoming.

And this?

This version of me?

She was earned.

Rep by rep. Boundary by boundary. Standard by standard.

So no… this isn’t one of the things she can pick up just because I did it first.

And that’s okay.

Because for the first time in this entire beautifully unhinged, eight-year situationship…

I’m not ahead.

I’m just somewhere she can’t follow.

And honestly?

That’s the closest thing to peace I’ve ever felt.

So yes, I lift weights.

Not because I was broken.

Not because I needed saving.

But because somewhere between the chaos, the copying, the competition, and the quiet moments of clarity…

I realized I was never competing with her.

I was becoming someone entirely my own.

And that?

That’s not petty.

…okay, it started a little petty.

But it ended in power.