Those Darn Orange Dumbbells

Those orange dumbbells sitting in the plastic box on the patio. They weren’t even mine. Would you believe it? A personal trainer who didn’t have any gym equipment of her own. Maybe a lousy resistance band or two, but that was about it. Why would she need weights at home when she had a gym to go to? Didn’t people go to gyms so they didn’t have to be stuck in small, awkward places where it was easy to start the day with the intention of exercising but then spending the rest of the day trawling through hardware stores trying to find the right plaster to fix the wall with? But, I suppose, with gyms shutting down in March, 2020, those darn orange dumbbells my dad used for his shoulder rehab would have to do.

Those darn orange dumbbells. Why did they trigger the feelings of an anxiety attack every time I attempted to do what I had done for years? Why did my body seek to protect me in such a way that I could barely utilise my outlet for stress and anxiety? It amazed me that two, neon orange, four kilogram (or nine pound) dumbbells could evoke such a sense of dread that I refused to lift weights for the months following out of fear that I would lapse into anxiety once again.

Those darn orange dumbbells, they made me realise how I had driven my body to the ground. My body wasn’t giving up on me, I had given up on it. I didn’t listen to the lingering ache in my left ear. I pushed through the unwavering fatigue that had taken over my body, thinking it was the ‘norm’ of what adult life was like. I watched my doctor, scrolling through the results of a blood test. The recovering hypochondriac in me desperate to think the worst. The doctor non-chalantly says: ‘you have low iron. Take these iron tablets, eat more red meat and go easier on yourself.’ Mate, let me tell you: that was music to my ears at first. Soon enough though, I pondered how on earth I had found myself in that position in the first place.

Those darn orange dumbbells didn’t even get a glance between October 2019 and March 2020. Who had the time with the schedule I had? I was studying four law units at university. I was doing intense off-season training for rugby. I worked two personal training jobs with chaotic hours, 6 days a week. I maintained a social life, worked on my novel and tried figuring out a way to build up my business. On Thursday mornings, I would wake at 5am, be at work by 6am, finish at 9am, study law all day, hop on a 45 minute bus ride to 7pm training, finish just before 8pm, head home, have dinner, have some kind of night-time routine, be in bed by 10pm, and then wake on Friday morning at 5am once again to repeat it all again.

Those darn orange dumbbells, I think to myself as I sit at the dining table for a change of scenery whilst studying for some law exam in May, 2020. How? Why? Why did I feel so weak, so overcome by the anxiety that had infused into my muscles? I meditated. I did everything right. How?

Those darn orange dumbbells, they made me realise I had done it all with the wrong intention. I decided to pursue it all in that period of time because I wanted to prove I could do it. I wanted to prove to myself that I could balance it, and I wanted to show those around me that I wasn’t lazy.

And then it hit me. A memory, a flashback, a moment in time that had seeped into my life in ways that were unfavourable. It oozed into every decision, every action, every thought like a liquid toxin that dripped from the skin of a most unfortunate individual.

I was transported back to 2007. I hadn’t even turned ten years old. It was a Saturday morning and I had just played a netball game at 8am, then did a 45 minute sparring class at 10:30am and had finally made it to my third destination of the day: swimming class. Exhausted halfway through a lap, I clung onto the plastic ropes for a breather. The owner of the swim school was watching and noticed me, and with a smirk calls out to the swimming instructor: ‘Keep an eye on Monique, we all know she can be a bit lazy.’

A seemingly innocent comment, perhaps with the intention to light a fire within me to keep going and push through the fatigue, had burned so deeply into my consciousness. More salt was poured into the wound every time a relative would fire bullets at me with comments like ‘you want the glory without the hard work’ or ‘you’re a slacker’. The wound remained open, allowing these words, these bullets, to penetrate it to no avail.

Until my body intervened and said enough was enough.

Until these darn orange dumbbells.

Thirteen years later, the wound finally began to heal.

The memory left behind by the scars of those words is the inspiration for my 2022 resolutions. Rest now means something different to me now than it did two years ago. I no longer subscribe to the need to always be doing something. I refuse to connect my worth with how much I do. I allow my innate feminine energy, which I had suppressed for decades, to infuse itself into my being. I allow the balancing masculine energy to create a safe structure in my daily life to allow for my creative spirit to run wild without running into the ground.

I create more time for freedom, for true rest and not just a measly 8 hours. I let myself be, guilt-free. For the first time in my life.

And I know, I’m only 24 years old. I’m just starting out.

But I’m grateful. I am so grateful that I learnt this now.

I learnt the importance of rest. I recognised the messages my body was sending to me. My body, your body- they’re our best teachers.

My resolution, or intention I prefer to say, in 2022 is to maintain this love and appreciation of rest. I choose to constantly train this muscle that is my relationship with being able to relax- and truly relax- without worrying about how others view me and what I do.

Not only am I healing myself and resting for myself, I’m resting for my ancestors. Everything they did, everything they went through, has led me to this point in time. I heal the intergenerational gift of overworking. It stops with me. I choose for this habit of not prioritising rest to stop with me.

I’m resting for me, for my present and the people around me now. Some may not get it. Some may see it still as being slack, but for others, it has inspired them to reconsider their relationship with rest and work.

I’m resting for the future, for my children and my children’s children and beyond. The buck stops with me. I refuse to pass on that same generational habit of overworking. I’m instilling the idea that you can be successful, work hard and rest. None of it is mutually exclusive.

An entire family history rewritten because of a measly pair of darn orange dumbbells.

How about that?