Mom the sheep Dad the Lion
My dad sits in stark contrast stood my mother. Mostly, because he sits and sits. At 83, she is still remarkably fit and goes to the gym every single day. Movement has always been a non-negotiable part of her life. Growing up, I watched her prioritize her health not out of vanity, but out of self-respect. She moved her body consistently, ate with intention, and approached aging as something to engage with rather than surrender to. Her discipline was quiet and unwavering, and it showed me that strength doesn’t have to be loud to be powerful.
But my mother’s influence extended far beyond fitness. She taught me how to be giving, kind, and emotionally available. Where my father often led with control and defensiveness, my mother led with generosity and empathy. She gave freely of her time, her energy, and her care, often without recognition. From her, I learned that real strength includes softness—that you can be firm without being cruel, confident without being domineering, and disciplined without losing compassion. Watching her navigate life with grace, especially alongside a difficult partner, left a deep imprint on me.
Seeing both of my parents so clearly—one embodied motion and kindness, the other brilliance and inner turmoil—forced me to make choices early in life. I didn’t want to become physically stagnant like my father, nor emotionally closed off by unresolved pain. His body became a warning sign to me. Watching a man I loved struggle under the weight of his own neglect inspired me to move, to train, and to take responsibility for my physical self. I began exercising with intensity and consistency, driven not just by aesthetics, but by a desire to never feel trapped in my own body. Over time, that dedication transformed me to the point where I could see my abdominal muscles clearly—a visible marker of discipline, but more importantly, of commitment to movement and life.
Exercise became more than a habit; it became a form of rebellion against stagnation and a form of healing. Where my father remained seated, I moved. Where he avoided discomfort, I leaned into it. Each workout felt like a declaration that pain didn’t have to calcify into bitterness, that effort could be a release rather than a burden. Physical training gave me clarity, confidence, and an emotional outlet I rarely saw modeled in my father’s life.
At the same time, I carried with me the lessons of my mother. Her kindness tempered my intensity. She showed me that success without generosity is hollow, and strength without compassion isolates. I learned to give—not because it made me look good, but because it made me human. Even as I pursued physical excellence and personal growth, I tried to stay grounded in empathy, understanding how easily unprocessed pain can twist into destructive behavior. My father wasn’t a villain; he was a man who never learned how to tend to his inner world, and it cost him dearly.
Growing up in that household gave me a deep awareness of cause and effect. I saw how mental pain, when ignored, can manifest as narcissism, control, and isolation. I also saw how consistent self-care—both physical and emotional—can preserve vitality and connection well into old age. My parents became living case studies in two divergent paths, and I have spent much of my life consciously choosing which lessons to carry forward.
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