Her Joy was a painful reminder of everything I had to let go of.
She looked stunning in her leopard-print halter-neck bodycon dress and contrasting stiletto heels. I was especially drawn to her Facebook post because we both share a love for powerlifting.
As I scrolled through her photos, I felt a surge of emotion I didn’t expect. I was upset, maybe even mad, at her joy, her celebration, her having everything I once planned for myself, before life got in the way with its unexpected turns.
Then came the guilt. I felt small for having such big feelings about someone I barely knew. She wasn’t a friend or family, just a friend of a friend’s wife. Someone I never once met.
Caught in that concoction of envy, grief, and self-awareness, I chose to pause and listen to what my heart was trying to say.
Terrifying memories of the days leading up to my 40th birthday came rushing back.
After nearly five years away from the gym, I finally returned to powerlifting with a new personal trainer. Getting back into strength training after such a long break was brutal. I poured my sweat, heart, and determination into regaining my form and mastering the fundamentals.
After almost a year of consistent effort, I felt strong again. Like a pro, I was nailing the kings of lifts —back squats and deadlifts —lifting 150% of my body weight. It felt surreal, as if I were reclaiming a part of myself that had been dormant for too long.
That’s when the idea struck: a photoshoot to celebrate turning 40. Just imagining it gave me goosebumps. It became my motivation for those heavy lifts. I already had the poses and the outfits picked out in my mind.
My toned body was getting noticed, and I couldn’t help but secretly imagine the reactions of friends and family when they saw the pictures.
I had everything lined up: the strength, the look, the vision. I was ready to show up and shine. But as always, God chuckled at my plans.
I bet I had jinxed myself because what followed next was a series of back-to-back doctor visits.
One week before my birthday, my obgyn scheduled an unexpected surgery. It all happened too fast. Before I could process it, I was in the post-op recovery room, sipping ice chips and watching visitors through my blurred vision.
The anaesthesia hadn’t fully worn off, and those few extra hours of sleep and quiet in the hospital bed felt like a luxury. The doctor’s instructions were simple, or so she thought: Bed rest for three months. No lifting weights. No running. No workouts.
I wish my hearing had been blurry, too. I smiled weakly.
“Any pain?” the doctor asked one last time before leaving the room.
“Nowhere except my heart, Doc,” I replied.
She smiled back, clearly relieved that my brain was still intact.
Once we got home, I ordered a blueberry cheesecake and a mango ice cream. I needed a celebration, not for what I had left, but that I was still here.
When I finally returned to training, things began to look up. My trainer greeted me with warm compliments, saying I looked just as strong as before. Soon, I found my rhythm again in my workouts.
Ten months later, I had caught up to where I’d left off before the surgery. Energised and motivated, I signed up for a 10K race.
In the days that followed, I felt unstoppable: clocking miles and witnessing the impact of strength training on my running performance with every stride.
Everything was going perfectly until the doorbell rang at 2:30 a.m. on a Monday.
We opened the door to find the security guard standing outside. Rain was pouring steadily, and the wind was pushing them hard against the walls. The clouds roared fiercely as if the sky itself was being hammered. The air was thick, carrying the scent of wet sand and cold metal.
Half-awake, I felt the chill seep through our cracked doorway onto my mind. I noticed bikes and broken branches drifting sluggishly in the murky floodwaters pooled near his feet. Everything looked unsettled, like the night had been shaken loose.
In the next few hours, we moved to my parents’ home, who lived in the same complex and were stranded upstairs in their duplex for three days.
The rooms were dark without electricity, and our phones were all dead. No internet, no way to connect to the outside world. The fridge was empty. No milk to make some creamy coffee, or fancy food to offer instant comfort.
There was only the relentless splatter of rain against the windows, the whooshing of trees swaying violently in the gusty wind, and distant thunder rumbling in the background.
We watched through the window, our cars drowning deeper with every passing hour.
I cooked nonstop to distract myself with whatever was left over in the house for my parents, brother, husband, and kids. I didn’t sleep through the night. I prayed for the rains to stop and for our lives to return to normalcy.
It took at least a month to salvage whatever we could and return to our usual routine. Most of our life’s best memories, captured in cameras, photo prints, and keepsakes I had carefully preserved for my kids, were gone forever. We had to throw away our furniture, and the cars were towed away.
The financial loss was enormous. We started again from scratch. But through it all, I kept telling everyone, “At least we made it through in one piece.” I felt grateful to be alive, but never once took the time to relieve my suppressed emotions.
Race day arrived. I had not trained or warmed up for the run. I was not even ready yet, at least not for what was ahead.
I woke up at 4 a.m., determined to run because after everything the floods had taken, my dignity was all I had left.
“Runners don’t quit,” I told my husband and left the house.
At the finish line, I felt a strange pain creeping all over my body. This wasn’t soreness. I knew the difference.
Something felt off.
Three weeks later, I couldn’t get out of bed. My lower back was locked tight. I rolled off the mattress and lay flat on the floor, grounded again, this time not just by pain but by life itself. With very limited movement, I tried to stretch, but only in vain. I couldn’t hold up my forté any longer.
I didn’t hold back my tears this time; I let them flow. They touched the ground. I did nothing to stop them. No forced positivity or cheer this time. Just me, my silent tears, and a loud conversation between my heart and soul.
For once, I allowed myself to simply be, to feel the pain in its full intensity. My pain deserved that space, and I honoured it.
On the same day, I visited a sports doctor, enrolled in a spine rehabilitation program, and committed to it for the next two months.
During this time, I stayed away from the gym, focusing instead on walking and yoga, healing slowly and steadily.
Last year, I returned to the gym. And touch wood, I’ve never felt stronger, both in body and in mind. They say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.
I learned that every time we survive something that nearly breaks us, we rebuild ourselves with a hundred new reinforcements.
In my case, I didn’t just bounce back. I became a new force.
Today, I was finally ready to revisit the string of memories from the year I turned 40. The year that crushed me into a thousand pieces and tested me in ways I never thought possible.
I just realized I had never paused to acknowledge all I had missed. I never let myself grieve the lost moments or offer compassion to myself through everything I survived. I was too busy trying to appear “okay” so no one else had to worry about me. I had shoved away all my broken feelings behind my smile, assuming a Band-Aid was enough to hold it together. And today, it got ripped off by a stranger’s birthday photoshoot.
Now that I’ve had the chance to relieve all the pressure, I feel no more pain. The bitterness that once lingered is also now replaced with pride and gratitude.
To the woman in the leopard print suit, “Thank you for reminding me that I had been a Tigress all along, too!”
Failed plans, I now believe, are often God’s way of making space for better promises.
The biggest lesson I have learned here is to NOT wait for a date on the calendar to celebrate who I have become. Any day I feel ready is enough to shout out to the world. Just like I did today!
My muscles are bigger now than ever. So is my story.
Maybe that was the point all along?
Tomorrow isn’t a given. There may be more pauses, more pain, more unpredictable chaos.
But today, I know this:
No matter how deep I fall, I will always rise.
And I will always find my light.
© Tamil, 2025.
My Magic Bytes 
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