If I’m honest with you, I was addicted to exercise. Legit.
It didn’t start out that way. It morphed over several years when I started exercising more consistently at 45.
At my first exercise class after I signed up at the YMCA, I took a 30-minute legs-only class. How hard could it be, I told myself. I found out very quickly, and it was very hard. I couldn’t walk for a week. I could barely even make it down the stairs to the gym lobby and out to my car after the first class. I was in sad shape, but I returned each week and saw how quickly I progressed and improved.
Then, I added another exercise class, and I started to lose weight, which was a big motivator to keep going. And, of course 🤨, more is better, right?
From there, I continued to add more classes, exercise at home, and incorporate a walking routine.
It was all going great until I started perimenopause at around 48/49ish. But I didn’t realize that my body was subtly changing, and I kept this routine until I was 51.
That’s when things started to go sour.