It still looks swollen, a permanent fixture, a nightmare I have tried to forget with little success.

8 months ago, as I walked down a narrow set of stairs in a department store, my foot gave away on the last step. An innocuous slip really. Only, I heard the very audible crack, like a twig being stepped upon by an elephant.

That was my ankle, breaking up and leaving me immobile for almost three months.

I have bragged, kiddishly proudly so, that my body has been subjected to many falls over the years, with very few parts having escaped, if not a fracture, at least a sprain. I am a faller, an expert at that, I self deprecate often, in a hurry before someone else adds that descriptor to my name.

This fall felt different. It just refused to heal. Perhaps, age finally caught up, my body revolting against the unceremonious treatment meted out to it for decades.

There was no option but to put a program in place. Physiotherapy, that I have half heartedly embraced on and off during previous falls, had to get scheduled, with no end date in sight.

There was starting trouble, a lot of it, lot of it. My calendar didn’t cooperate. My body even worsely so.

However, the physio progressed, jumpily and jerkily at that. As the weeks went by, it became clear that I had more issues than just a broken ankle. My lifelong battle with balance, a battle I was yet to pick arms against, loomed large and goaded me on.

The therapy had to transition to something more worthwhile, long term, “transforming”. Pilates, it was decided. 3 times a week. The highest intensity workout I have done ever.

The trainers are monsters, the equipments modern day torture devices. I pull and push, crunch and release, sweat and cry, every other day.

It takes my all to wake up some days and get to the Center, squeezing a school run before, office calls immediately after. Late night binges aren’t a luxury anymore, because that would mean missing class the next day.

But I like it. I like the work my body puts in, my mind shutting down those 45 minutes because if I miss even one step, I am going to be ineffective.

More importantly, I like the consistency. It’s been a quarter of a year on this schedule now, and at the risk of jinxing it, I am glad a habit has formed. A quarter is a long while in my dictionary.

No takeaways or life lessons. LinkedIn or what.

Just a story I wanted to share, of prioritization and consistency, and my own form of meditation, grunting and screaming, groaning and moaning, breathing heavily while at it, contrary to all popular meditation techniques.

Different strokes for different folks, I suppose.

It still looks swollen, a permanent fixture, a nightmare I have tried to forget with little success.

8 months ago, as I walked down a narrow set of stairs in a department store, my foot gave away on the last step. An innocuous slip really. Only, I heard the very audible crack, like a twig being stepped upon by an elephant.

That was my ankle, breaking up and leaving me immobile for almost three months.

I have bragged, kiddishly proudly so, that my body has been subjected to many falls over the years, with very few parts having escaped, if not a fracture, at least a sprain. I am a faller, an expert at that, I self deprecate often, in a hurry before someone else adds that descriptor to my name.

This fall felt different. It just refused to heal. Perhaps, age finally caught up, my body revolting against the unceremonious treatment meted out to it for decades.

There was no option but to put a program in place. Physiotherapy, that I have half heartedly embraced on and off during previous falls, had to get scheduled, with no end date in sight.

There was starting trouble, a lot of it, lot of it. My calendar didn’t cooperate. My body even worsely so.

However, the physio progressed, jumpily and jerkily at that. As the weeks went by, it became clear that I had more issues than just a broken ankle. My lifelong battle with balance, a battle I was yet to pick arms against, loomed large and goaded me on.

The therapy had to transition to something more worthwhile, long term, “transforming”. Pilates, it was decided. 3 times a week. The highest intensity workout I have done ever.

The trainers are monsters, the equipments modern day torture devices. I pull and push, crunch and release, sweat and cry, every other day.

It takes my all to wake up some days and get to the Center, squeezing a school run before, office calls immediately after. Late night binges aren’t a luxury anymore, because that would mean missing class the next day.

But I like it. I like the work my body puts in, my mind shutting down those 45 minutes because if I miss even one step, I am going to be ineffective.

More importantly, I like the consistency. It’s been a quarter of a year on this schedule now, and at the risk of jinxing it, I am glad a habit has formed. A quarter is a long while in my dictionary.

No takeaways or life lessons. LinkedIn or what.

Just a story I wanted to share, of prioritization and consistency, and my own form of meditation, grunting and screaming, groaning and moaning, breathing heavily while at it, contrary to all popular meditation techniques.

Different strokes for different folks, I suppose.