Every cusp-of-summer, it happens. The neighborhood walkers turn into runners. The fleece jackets give way to sports bras. The dog walkers’ pace picks up.

There’s a tightening, a sharpening in the air, like everyone’s preparing for something. A marathon. A milestone. A body more streamlined, more “worthy.”

And me? I’m sitting at my window seat, sipping hot cacao, eating one of those gluten-free, almond flour, coconut oil, chocolate chip cookies from Costco. You know the ones with that weird aftertaste?

Watching them go by. Watching their ponytails swing, their feet drum the asphalt, their buff arms slicing cleanly through the air.

Sometimes, in the shower, I catch sight of myself—my belly, softer than it used to be. Droplets sliding down flabby skin. Stretch marks I wouldn’t trade for the world. The steam blurs the edges, offering a kindness I didn’t ask for but accept anyway.

I’ve gained five pounds in the last two months. It isn’t a lot. But it doesn’t feel like a little either.

That subtle swell of flesh that wasn’t always there, mocking me.

I mind it. I really do. Especially when my skinny fit jeans refuse to zip up. But not enough, apparently, to do anything about it.

And that’s what baffles me. Why doesn’t it move me into action?

It’s not like I haven’t tried. I’ve tried. God, have I tried.

I’ve downloaded the apps. I’ve paid for the premium upgrades. I’ve joined gyms. I’ve had a yoga teacher come to my house for private lessons. I’ve signed up for studios, challenges, programs. I once paid a thousand dollars a month—yes, really—for a personal coach’s sleek guidance.

*The laundry rack I purchased back in 2002 in Iowa City*

I bought a walking pad for my studio last fall—and have been trying desperately ever since not to use it for drying gel plate prints!

I bought a rowing machine two springs ago that now sits covered on the patio.

Every time, I start with fire. Gung-ho. Determined. A new notebook. A new schedule. A new set of intentions. Logging everything. Feeling invigorated. A swanky new version of me. Fresh, sweaty, sore.

And then, like clockwork, four weeks in… I stop.

It’s not time. It’s not money. It’s not even effort, if I’m honest.

I just… stop.

It’s not that I don’t want to move. I’ve loved moving. I’ve known joy in moving. But somewhere along the way, movement becomes measuring.

And the measuring drains the joy.

I used to love hiking. I loved the way the air smelled different up in the hills, the burn in my calves, the world stretching wide beneath me at the summit. But then we got the pup. And suddenly the trails were off-limits—no dogs allowed, too many foxtails, too much risk. And it felt easier to just… stop.

*I’ve lost those sunglasses, that hat, and the curated “fitness journey”*

I used to love my neighborhood walks, too. I’d go out every other day, an hour at a time, just me and my favorite podcasts. But then it started to feel like I should be doing more. Like an hour wasn’t enough. Like walking wasn’t enough. Like I wasn’t enough.

And… I stopped.

I know all the benefits. I’ve read every article, bookmarked every motivational post, texted every link to friends already miles ahead. I know the research on bone density and heart health and strength and longevity.

I know the endorphins, the serotonin, the cortisol regulation. I know it like I know my own name.

And still. I sit at my window seat, texting encouragement to my friends sweating it out on their Pelotons and conquering Mt. Whatevertheheckitis. Telling them I’m proud while solving Wordle archives and watching Top Chef reruns, dusting cookie crumbles off my belly.

I own all the gear. The Elastique leggings. The supportive compression tanks with MicroPerle® beads that stimulate lymphatic flow and boost circulation. The water bottles that promise optimal hydration. But the clothes stay folded. The ebony Brooks GTS21 with “trusted GuideRails holistic support systems” stay clean.

And every end-of-spring/beginning-of-summer, I find myself here again. At my window seat. Watching. Wondering.

I trace the outline of my body in my mind, that shower moment flickering back. And maybe the real question isn’t why I’m not doing it.

Maybe the real question is why I feel like I should.

I’m not failing. I’m not lazy. I’m not broken. I’m quitting something that no longer fits. And in that quitting, I’m holding space for the things that still do.

Like the way I move in my studio.

No apps tracking my brushstrokes. No premium upgrades to unlock better creativity. Just pastels gliding over watercolor, graphite marks blending with acrylic inks, pictures emerging, words fading...an ease in my breath, an aliveness in my being, moving in service of something I'm called to rather than something I think I should do.

Like the way I share my writing. Reflective, thoughtful, evocative. Coming from a place of brutal honesty. The exhaustion after a mental workout feels just as real as an hour at the gym.

Like the way I savor my food. Or skirts with pockets. Those long flowy dresses. The flats. The wide-rimmed hats.

There’s no measuring that joy. No sharing it. Just feeling it.

And maybe, that’s enough. Maybe that’s what I’ll do in those Pilates classes that are starting in June.

A Fitness Regimen that Doesn’t Fit

The Weight of Inheritance

The Field Between Us