Fit Week Energy

Photo courtesy of Gratisography

Thursday, February 5th, 2026

It’s the end of week two of a four-week stretch of constant meetings, with a work pileup waiting patiently at the end and I know I can’t escape. My boss is doing their best to shield me from the things they know will send me spinning. I know they’re coming anyway. They keep bringing me my favorite snacks and candy for when I need treats. Like trying to appease the gods. Not that I’m a god, but it’s working.

My coworkers appreciate the preparation and thinking I’ve put into their styles, even if I haven’t gotten to everything in time. My work is helping create better-fitting garments and more considered, inclusive features. It also makes their lives easier, which in turn makes mine easier. Really, this is all about me.

My skip-level sees the effort too. She’s seeing me apply her teachings and considering my suggestions for what the team (and me) needs to learn next. However, she did walk into the room the other day just as I said a decision that she was part of was irresponsible and should have been made seven months ago. There’s a reason we started working on these styles early, and now the call is being made two weeks before approval. Go fuck yourselves. I stand by what I said.

Fit weeks do this to me. I have zero chill.

I stall my entire life and go into hiding — radio silence with family and friends, my housemate drafted into afternoon dog-walking duty on my longest days - which I appreciate so much.

I live on coffee, a protein drink, and two hard-boiled eggs for breakfast. Two more eggs and cheese strings for lunch. Dinner is whatever appears or whatever I can scavenge. Tonight, it was a pint of overpriced ice cream. The EA at the office keeps the candy jar full during these weeks. A public service that we all appreciate.

During times like this, I pre-write my schedule for the upcoming weeks, including what time I need to leave the house. I then work backward to when the dogs need to be walked so I can get there on time. I started doing this when my coworkers started making bets on my arrival time… 

If I’m working from home in the morning, I almost never make it online by nine. I’d feel worse about it if I weren’t working late on the other end. Those mornings, I’ve also — ambitiously — scheduled myself to go to the gym.

The first week, it absolutely did not work. Of the 7 days scheduled, I made it once. I tried coordinating with a friend, but our schedules refused to cooperate. I like early mornings; she has a 7 a.m. meeting most days. Lunch plans got sidelined by work. After-work attempts ran into a packed gym and no available equipment. The misalignment wasn’t just logistical  —  connecting with her over sauna time felt like a better use of my energy than dodging people and standing around waiting for an available squat rack.

Week two was better. I found three mornings to go on my own. Tomorrow will be the third. The first two weren’t perfect, but I finished more than ninety percent of the workouts before I had to bail and get back to the dogs and the day. I’m proud of that. I like feeling sore. It reminds me that something is still happening in my body that isn’t just stress.

None of this looks like discipline. It looks like containment.

But right now, I’ll take what I can get.

My efforts at self-preservation aren’t impressive, but they’re better than they used to be during this particular season of overwork. There are two weeks left. I’m going to have to stockpile a gym visit or two this weekend to get through the next stretch. I know the gym matters — for my physical health, my sleep, and my mental health — even if the version of “going” I can manage right now is imperfect and unfinished.

Before bed, I’ve started meditating. Sometimes for twenty minutes. Sometimes for ten. I have an enviable ability to fall asleep instantly, but meditation seems to help me stay asleep longer — and reminds me it’s an option when I wake up before I mean to. That and some melatonin and a cuddly dog..

I’m also finally finishing the second of the glovelets I started last winter. The season will be over by the time it’s done, but it will be done. It’s been nice to make something with my hands again, to return to creativity without urgency. A slow start to a bigger plan. This is the year of leveling up, even if I don’t feel confident yet. Especially because I don’t.

This isn't a transformation and I knew it wouldn’t be. I’m not thriving right now. I’m choosing what survives the season — my body, my sleep, my work, a few small rituals that keep me tethered. Maintenance mode isn’t failure. It’s strategy.

Stay Gritty.