I escaped winter for two months so wasn’t lifting weights while I was in South Africa. Home a week now, and having exhausted all excuses and all strategies for delay, I dragged myself back there today.

It’s always an ordeal to get there, always, and then, 10 minutes into the workout I remember that I actually love being in the gym lifting heavy things. Oh the games our minds play with us. Having been away for two months, it all feels new and a little awkward again. Luckily, I’ve started again enough times in my life now, that I know how quickly this discomfort passes. The weights aren’t quite as heavy as I come back to the routine after two months, but that’s ok, I know I’ll get back to there.

In my 50s I’ve learned that you just have to start where you are. It’s ok to feel like you’re really rubbish when you start, but you are starting and that’s the first step. But I also know how great the progression feels, and consistency always brings progression. I also love the being the old, fat lady in the gym lifting big heavy irons off the ground. I’m 58 and I weigh 180lbs, so those words are just adjectives, just like strong and beautiful are.