ladyestella
New member
OK, minor click bait…
A few months ago, I stopped formally working out. I stopped lifting, stopped doing cardio workouts…stopped it all. I just woke up and realised that it was going to kill me if I didn’t slow down and give myself a break.
I have CPTSD from both a toxic childhood AND a series of very serious, continuous traumatic events between 2016 and 2021. I say it with zero irony that I am very, very lucky to be alive today.
Fortunately, I am! Not so fortunately, I always saw my survival as a sign to keep going — and by keep going, I mean doing all the things I did before 2016. Heavy workouts, lots of cardio, lots of WORK WORK WORK and PUSH PUSH PUSH and DRIVE DRIVE DRIVE.
Trauma massively affects the body. I now live with a lot of fatigue, shakiness, and general malaise that no doctor can find a diagnosis for — besides trauma itself. I’m OK with this, and in a weird way, having trauma show up in my body is cathartic. It tells me what I want to know: that what I went through was real, and my need to heal is tangible and genuine.
I moved house recently, and I’m lucky enough to have a little unused dining room that I transformed into a workout space. I’ve never had a dedicated workout space before, so I decided to decorate it with linen curtains and plants — a kind of zen aesthetic.
And then I realised that I was more excited about the space than I was to work out. Not that we need to be excited to work out, but at least we should…be OK with it? Recognise the benefits? Know that it helps?
This was when I realised that it no longer helped me. Working out, to be completely honest, was the most overwhelming part of my day. A combination of PTSD and higher-support-needs autism mean that I can’t work a traditional job, and workouts provided structure that I otherwise lack. Instead of positive, though, this structure was merely a tether that imprisoned my day. I dreaded getting up. I dreaded how fragile my body would feel afterwards — weak and vulnerable. I dreaded having to break a sweat and change my clothes, often showering twice.
I’d often choose between working out or getting dressed. Working out or going outside. Working out or cooking a meal. It was miserable.
So, a few months ago, less than a week after moving into my new house, I quit.
I started walking everyday and exploring my new city. I’m lucky enough to live in the capital of a country in Europe, so there are always cool things to see and do. Rather than drive, I just walk. I go to parks and read.
Then, in my workout space, I do yoga. I do pilates with very light hand weights, if I feel like something more challenging. I don’t break a sweat doing this, so I can wear regular clothes and take a relaxing shower before bed.
I try to move around more as part of my day.
I try to eat healthy, intuitively.
Two months later, I am quite possibly in the best shape of my life. I feel lean and strong, my posture is better, and I look much more alive. Sure — I’ll never have big muscles or an ass like Kim K…but who cares?
After 10 years of hard workouts, this feels like healing. This feels like the petite fitness my traumatised body deserves.
All of which to say — Petite Fitness looks different for everyone! And we all deserve something that works for our bodies!
A few months ago, I stopped formally working out. I stopped lifting, stopped doing cardio workouts…stopped it all. I just woke up and realised that it was going to kill me if I didn’t slow down and give myself a break.
I have CPTSD from both a toxic childhood AND a series of very serious, continuous traumatic events between 2016 and 2021. I say it with zero irony that I am very, very lucky to be alive today.
Fortunately, I am! Not so fortunately, I always saw my survival as a sign to keep going — and by keep going, I mean doing all the things I did before 2016. Heavy workouts, lots of cardio, lots of WORK WORK WORK and PUSH PUSH PUSH and DRIVE DRIVE DRIVE.
Trauma massively affects the body. I now live with a lot of fatigue, shakiness, and general malaise that no doctor can find a diagnosis for — besides trauma itself. I’m OK with this, and in a weird way, having trauma show up in my body is cathartic. It tells me what I want to know: that what I went through was real, and my need to heal is tangible and genuine.
I moved house recently, and I’m lucky enough to have a little unused dining room that I transformed into a workout space. I’ve never had a dedicated workout space before, so I decided to decorate it with linen curtains and plants — a kind of zen aesthetic.
And then I realised that I was more excited about the space than I was to work out. Not that we need to be excited to work out, but at least we should…be OK with it? Recognise the benefits? Know that it helps?
This was when I realised that it no longer helped me. Working out, to be completely honest, was the most overwhelming part of my day. A combination of PTSD and higher-support-needs autism mean that I can’t work a traditional job, and workouts provided structure that I otherwise lack. Instead of positive, though, this structure was merely a tether that imprisoned my day. I dreaded getting up. I dreaded how fragile my body would feel afterwards — weak and vulnerable. I dreaded having to break a sweat and change my clothes, often showering twice.
I’d often choose between working out or getting dressed. Working out or going outside. Working out or cooking a meal. It was miserable.
So, a few months ago, less than a week after moving into my new house, I quit.
I started walking everyday and exploring my new city. I’m lucky enough to live in the capital of a country in Europe, so there are always cool things to see and do. Rather than drive, I just walk. I go to parks and read.
Then, in my workout space, I do yoga. I do pilates with very light hand weights, if I feel like something more challenging. I don’t break a sweat doing this, so I can wear regular clothes and take a relaxing shower before bed.
I try to move around more as part of my day.
I try to eat healthy, intuitively.
Two months later, I am quite possibly in the best shape of my life. I feel lean and strong, my posture is better, and I look much more alive. Sure — I’ll never have big muscles or an ass like Kim K…but who cares?
After 10 years of hard workouts, this feels like healing. This feels like the petite fitness my traumatised body deserves.
All of which to say — Petite Fitness looks different for everyone! And we all deserve something that works for our bodies!
This has inspired me to connect with what body and mind need instead of pushing too hard.