I didn’t step into fitness to change my body. I stepped into it to save my life.
I wasn’t the kid who played sports or participated in physical games. I skipped P.E. so many times in high school that I had to take it twice in summer school. Growing up, no one ever talked about health, self-care, or what it meant to truly care for yourself. By the time I hit my teenage years, I was lost—and it didn’t take long for me to fall into drugs, addiction, and a life I didn’t recognize as my own.
Heroin. OxyContin. Anything I could get my hands on. I thought I was escaping, but really, I was sinking deeper. I fell into abusive relationships, got caught up in crime, and spiraled further until I couldn’t see a way out. There was a moment—many, actually—when I thought I wouldn’t survive this life.
At one point, I even joined the Air Force. I made it through basic training, and for the first time, my body was pushed—challenged in ways I’d never known. I even earned a Physical Fitness Excellence Award. Me, the girl who avoided exercise at all costs. But just when I thought I was finding my footing, life struck again. A traumatic event during my time in the military sent me right back into darkness.
I left the Air Force, went back to drugs, and watched my life unravel all over again. My husband went to prison, I landed in jail, and everything I thought I’d lost, I somehow managed to lose even more. That summer in jail was the rock bottom I didn’t know I needed. It stripped away everything—the noise, the people, the substances—and left me alone with myself for the first time in years.
When I got out, I started slipping back into old habits. I justified “less hard” drugs, telling myself, At least it’s not heroin. But deep down, I knew I couldn’t go back. There was this voice, this feeling—call it intuition, call it God—whispering to me: You were made for more.
So, I left. I packed up a single carry-on bag, walked away from everything and everyone, and started over with nothing.
Let me tell you—sobriety is raw. It’s standing face-to-face with yourself, no distractions, no numbing, just the truth. And it’s hard. The weight of my choices hit me like a ton of bricks. I looked at my life, the destruction I’d caused—relationships, finances, my very soul—and realized the monster wasn’t the drugs. The monster was me.
At 28, I had no work experience, plan, or clue who I was. Out of sheer desperation, I took a part-time job at a gym, working the front desk and in childcare—me, of all people! It’s laughable now, but back then, it was survival.
A month in, I decided to try working out. Not because I wanted abs or toned arms—I didn’t even care about that. I just needed something to fill my time and keep me from spiraling. And that’s when everything changed.
At first, I didn’t know what I was doing. I just showed up, day after day, pushing my body in ways that felt foreign but good. The weights challenged me. They humbled me. And for the first time in years, I felt proud of something. It wasn’t about how I looked but what I could do. Lifting heavier, pushing harder, and showing up for myself gave me a sense of purpose I hadn’t felt in years.
Suddenly, I started caring about my health. I quit smoking because I noticed how much it slowed me down. I began learning about nutrition because why would I poison the body I was starting to care for? I began to feel… worthy. Worthy of care, worthy of growth, worthy of the life I never thought I deserved.
But I still had work to do. Emotionally, I was raw and unsteady. I had spent years numbing my emotions, and now they poured out of me like a flood. So, I turned to prayer. I fasted for 40 days—no distractions, no animal products, no noise—just me, God, and my journal.
And in that stillness, I found answers. I realized that my sensitivity—the deep emotions I’d always buried—wasn’t a weakness; it was my superpower. My calling wasn’t just to survive my story—it was to use it to help others heal, grow, and reclaim their lives, too.
Fitness was the tool that saved me. It taught me discipline when I had none. It gave me confidence when I felt worthless. It showed me that strength isn’t just physical—it’s mental, emotional, and spiritual.
Health is healing, and healing changes everything.
This is why I do what I do: to guide others through the same transformation. To show you that caring for yourself—mind, body, and soul—can rebuild your life from the inside out.
Because if I can rise from the most challenging places, so can you. One step, one rep, one choice at a time.
You are worthy of strength. You are worthy of healing. You are worthy of more.
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