What a Fitness Coach Learned About Consistency From Her Autistic Son

 

 

There’s something I don’t talk about enough.

 

For the first few years of my son Richie’s life, I barely felt like I was in my own body. Fight or flight. Freeze or fawn. We knew something was off but we didn’t yet know that Richie was autistic. The school called every single day. He could only handle a couple of hours of kindergarten at a time. I had a one year old and a newborn at home. I had a love hate relationship with my Apple Watch because every buzz on my wrist meant it could possibly be the school calling.

 

I was a personal trainer. Fitness was my job. And I was barely keeping my head above water.

 

So what did I do?

 

I went to my garage and I worked out.

 

Not because I had time. I didn’t. Not because it was easy. It wasn’t. I started getting up earlier and earlier in the morning because I knew… I knew… that I would be a better person and a better mom if I moved my body first.

 

When the stress was so high I couldn’t feel myself anymore, exercise brought me back. I could feel my body again. My brain working again. I could literally feel the good hormones moving into my bloodstream. It was like an hourglass tipping over… the sand flowing through… everything recalibrating. Slowly. Steadily. Back to me.

 

 

Here’s what nobody talks about enough. Every time you finish a workout you didn’t think you could finish… every time your body says you can do this when your brain said I don’t know if I can… you’re collecting evidence. Proof that you are capable. Proof that you can do hard things. Proof that you are going to be okay.

 

That’s why I tell my clients the things I tell them every day. They come from somewhere real. From someone who has been in the mire and kept moving anyway.

 

 

This week I picked Richie up from Camp Carpe Diem, a camp for kids with epilepsy through Children’s Hospital of Atlanta. The first thing out of his mouth was how when he turns eighteen he can come back as a camp counselor.

 

Five years ago I could not have imagined that.

 

Here’s what those five years taught me. Trust is built in small increments. You don’t get to skip to the part where you feel confident. You have to do the scary thing first. And then again. And then again. And slowly… so slowly you almost don’t notice… the fear gets a little quieter and the trust gets a little louder.

 

There was grief in there too. Grief for the version of his life I had imagined. I went through all of it. The bargaining. The anger. The acceptance. Anyone who has ever had to let go of what they thought something was supposed to look like knows exactly what I mean. The grief is real. And it is necessary.

 

But somewhere on the other side of it I stopped measuring his progress against some imaginary version of what I thought his life was supposed to look like. I started seeing him. Just him. And celebrating what was actually right in front of me.

 

 

Richie is sixteen now. A true teenage boy. And I trust him more every single day. The days aren’t hard like they used to be. And now I can breathe. I can look forward. I can see him living on his own someday. A whole life ahead of him.

 

When you’re in the hardest part of something you cannot see any of that. It’s impossible. When you’re in the mire, in the thick of it, you can only survive the day in front of you.

 

That’s okay. Just survive today.

 

But as someone who has been through it… please move your body. Whatever that looks like for you. Yoga. A walk. Slow movement. Go touch grass. AND move your body. Because when we’re centered we can do anything. You cannot pour from an empty cup.

 

I know so many of us are in caregiving seasons right now. Aging parents. Kids who need more than we sometimes feel we have to give. It takes patience and grace and grit. And those are things you can actually build through consistent movement.

 

 

My superpower isn’t just the workout. It’s listening. It’s seeing you. It’s creating a space where you can be exactly who you are without judgment. So much can happen in a small group training session that has nothing to do with the weights you’re lifting.

 

You lift weights. I lift you. That’s not a slogan. That’s a promise.

 

Move your body. Not for how it looks. For how it makes you feel.

 

It’s not gonna be perfect. It’s not meant to be perfect. There’s no such thing as perfect. But I promise you… whatever you’re going through… it’s gonna be okay.

 

And it’s gonna be a good life.