I hyperfixate on random bullshit

It sounds to me like you’re mad at yourself for escaping suffering.

Usually, when people ask me why I don’t write more, the real answer is that I spend two hours a day doomscrolling reels of Jell-O turning into sand. I hate myself for this. I can’t risk this person hating me as much as I do. Once it belongs to someone else, it stops being a private thought and becomes a fact. So if I say, “It’s because I spend two hours a day watching Jell-O turn into sand,” then they say, “You’re a terrible person, and you’re useless.” Or maybe they won’t. Probably the only one coming up with this answer is me. But I can’t take that chance.

So I swallow all this hatred for myself. You should be writing. You should be studying and reading and doing your skincare for two hours every night. The day goes by. I did nothing. I didn’t write. The computer is still in my bag. The overpriced skincare products are still sitting on the shelves. The only thing I’m typing is “funny cat videos” into TikTok. And the only thing going on my face and nourishing my skin is tears.

I thought I cried because I wasn’t doing things. Now I know I am crying because I hate myself for not doing things. It’s so exhausting, all the things I don’t do. It’s so exhausting, all the things I do but don’t want to do. I am really tired. All the time.

I didn’t know what was happening to me. I am the most consistent person I’ve ever met. And I’ve met athletes, surgeons, and alcoholics who took commitment pretty seriously.

I didn’t know what was wrong with me. Until one friend came to me looking for help with his training. I’m not a trainer. I started training because one day I convinced myself that life was pointless and painful. And training gave me a point (also physical pain). The unconditional love of my friends and sister didn’t get me out of depression. Or the belief that they would never laugh again if I wasn’t there. Lifting a 100 kg deadlift was the thing that saved me.

It’s been six years now. I’ve been training four days a week, every single week (except for one week when my ex gave me an STD and I just lay in bed drinking blueberry juice).

My therapist said I’d created the perfect system for training. That’s why I’m so consistent. In the past, I imagined consistent people in a very unhealthy way. I don’t think they exist anymore. It’s not the person. It’s the system. Some people see me as a masochist, a superhero, or a deeply traumatized woman. They’re all right, but none of those things is why I keep showing up. There’s nothing special about me when it comes to lifting heavy. There’s something special about how I do it, not who I am.

I couldn’t stop thinking about something my therapist had said: “You’ve created the perfect system.” If it had worked for training, why couldn’t it work for everything else? I’d been living inside this mechanism for six years. It got me out of depression. It got me to the gym four days a week. It made me do something consistently for many years. And somehow I still couldn’t explain why it worked. At some molecular level, maybe I knew what was happening. In that case, I wasn’t telling myself what it was. So I opened my laptop. I started writing. I was looking for a pattern and I found something else.

I couldn’t wait to share my life-changing discovery with someone. A day later, this friend looking for training advice came to me.

“All I want is to drive 30 minutes to the gym, train every day for two hours, and have biceps the size of my head. But every time this idea pops into my head, I end up doomscrolling while eating ice cream.”

He started beating himself up in a very unhealthy and awful way I was pretty familiar with. I stopped him. It was his lucky day. I’d spent the previous twenty-four hours solving the problem of procrastination. I was ready to put my thesis to use.

You set a goal in your mind. Then you build a horrendous, tedious, unrealistic plan. You don’t follow it. Instead, you binge-watch your favorite show while eating ice cream. Then you hate yourself for it. So I said to him:

“It sounds to me like you’re mad at yourself for escaping suffering.”

The thing I noticed when I compared training to writing was surprisingly simple. Training came without pressure. I made it easy. I made it fun. I made it realistic. I don’t think my brain is against my writing career. I think it gets between me and anything that feels new, scary, complicated, or dangerous. Eating ice cream instead of training isn’t self-sabotage. It’s survival.

You set yourself this terrifying goal, and your body will do anything to escape it. Even if that means watching a man restore rusty knives for forty-five minutes. It’s your mind trying to get you somewhere safe. Somewhere familiar. Somewhere it knows it can survive. My brain craves ice cream and reruns of Friends whenever I give it a goal that’s unrealistic, complicated, or unclear. Because uncertainty is pretty scary too.

I wrote this in my notes app for myself that night.

tell yourself to dream big and crave the ice cream. eat it if you need to. i know the future feels too scary to look at. look at the ceiling. hate yourself for a moment. then hate that you hated yourself. but don’t build a home inside a thought. thoughts should never be permanent. remember who you are and where you’ve been. change is frightening. so is being still. life has never offered a version without fear. it only asks you to decide which fear deserves your company. now listen. you will stop confusing your voice with your enemy. promise yourself that you are not your own danger. then keep your promise.

One last thing...

In a shocking display of narcissism, I thought maybe I have something worth teaching you. So here are the things that helped me build habits without my body immediately panicking.

I’m leaving them here because they genuinely changed my life, with the hope that they help someone else and the fear that I accidentally sound like an unpublished chapter of Atomic Habits.

I honestly don’t know if they’ll help you. So far, they’ve mostly increased the size of my glutes. Which, is already enough for me.

1. Have a clear picture of the goal

For example:

I want to get stronger.

Not:

I want to become a completely different person by next Tuesday.

2. Decide what’s actually realistic

(Be honest. Your body knows when you’re lying)

If your first instinct is four days a week, do three.

If you want to train for an hour, go for fifteen minutes.

Then thirty next week.

Then an hour.

If you still want to stay longer…

GO HOME.

You’re building a habit, not proving a point.

You want your brain to leave thinking:

That wasn’t so bad. Let’s do it again tomorrow.

3. Make it easy

Join the closest gym.

Leave your bag by the door.

Remove every tiny excuse before your brain has time to invent twelve new ones.

4. Make it fun

If you love music, make a playlist that only exists for the gym.

If you love clothes, buy the outfit.

If you’re going to trick your brain, at least make it cool 💅🏽

I made the goal real, easy, and enjoyable.

Now my brain doesn’t need to escape into a two-hour doomscrolling session watching hydraulic presses destroy bowling balls.

If you catch yourself procrastinating again, there’s a good chance you’ve forgotten one of those three things. Your body isn’t lazy. It’s back in survival mode.

And please don’t think I’m writing this in order to recruit you into powerlifting.

I don’t care if you ever touch a barbell.

I care that you stop talking to yourself like that.

We shouldn’t speak to ourselves that way.

That’s our moms’ job.

This Thursday I’m breaking down how Phoebe Waller-Bridge writes humor. Why it feels effortless. Why it hurts. And how you can use it. I’m completely obsessed with her, and if you are too, I’d LOVE to have you in The Writing Room. It’s basically one iced latte a month :) ☕️🧊