Every week, without fail, I head back to the same place for rehab. The familiar surroundings and setup have become a fundamental rhythm of my life.
After decades of this routine, it’s easy to feel like I’m stuck in the loop of show up, move, strengthen and repeat.
There was a time when rehab felt like progress in its most obvious form, where gains were measurable and milestones were exciting. But twenty years into recovery, the landscape has shifted. This isn’t about big leaps anymore; it’s about staying steady, maintenance and longevity. It is about adapting to the reality that my body is ageing alongside everything else.
The balance between pushing yourself and protecting yourself becomes increasingly delicate. The margin for error shrinks, and the cost of “just seeing what happens” is often an injury that sets you back for months. My tolerance for risk is lower now, and honestly, that can make everything feel a bit repetitive and monotonous.
Tonight was my annual rehab review, where my physio brings in a group of students to assess and rethink the plan. It’s meant to be a reset point, a chance to step back and look at the bigger picture, but I nearly didn’t go.
Last month I postponed because of my foot injury and then last week I cancelled to have another stitch removed from my eye. Tonight’s session was forecast to be bitterly cold, windy and raining. If there were ever a list of reasons to cancel, I had them ready. Even my physio flagged the weather, asking if we should reschedule. But I’ve learned that if I wait until everything lines up perfectly without any disturbance, I’ll be waiting forever.
Although I had my reasons at the ready, I told him, “Ta for finding me another way out, but I don’t think there’ll ever be a perfect time. I need to choose my battles. This week my foot feels good, so let’s do it! Just maybe indoors!”
He replied, “Great—I’ll bring ALL of my weights!”
So tonight, I did it. My pain levels with the weather weren’t great and my fatigue was high, but I still showed up and lifted weights indoors. There’s a quiet cost to constantly opting out, both physically and mentally.
When I repeatedly talk myself out of things I can do, even imperfectly, I start to feel a low-level frustration or resentment. It’s not because I needed rest, but because I feel like I gave in too easily. I know I don’t need to push through everything and that being kind to myself and acknowledging limits matters deeply. But there’s a difference between self-compassion and self-avoidance, and I’m still learning where that line sits.
For me, the environment might stay the same, but the purpose has evolved. Tonight wasn’t about smashing goals or walking out with a dramatic breakthrough; it was about showing up anyway and working with what I’ve got. Progress at this stage for me looks like consistency and resilience.
It looks like choosing to return to the same place, again and again, and finding meaning in the fact that I’m still able to, even when it feels like the same old thing.