Rebuilding (RIP My Arse)

Now that I’m healing, I’m doing small weights again.

Nothing dramatic. Nothing heroic. Just what physio told me to do — the movements, the reps, the boring but important stuff. I do exactly what they give me… and then, if I’m honest, I push myself a tiny bit more.

Because my strength is bad.

And I want it back.

There’s something humbling about realising how much you’ve lost without noticing. Lifting things that used to be automatic now takes focus. Balance feels different. Muscles you never thought about suddenly make themselves known.

But I’m doing it.

Slowly. Properly. Safely.

I’ve lost weight too.

And listen — I know that’s something people usually celebrate. But I’m going to be honest:

My arse has gone.

Completely disappeared.

Vanished.

I could cry. I had a nice arse. A respectable one. One that turned up for me when jeans were involved. And now? It’s like it packed its bags and left without a goodbye.

Rude, honestly.

Still — every time I pick up a weight, every time I complete a set, every time my legs shake but don’t give up, I remind myself: this isn’t about aesthetics right now.

It’s about function.

It’s about strength.

It’s about getting my body back online.

And if rebuilding my arse is part of that journey? So be it.

We will reunite.

I believe in us.

Healing isn’t glamorous. It’s repetitive, frustrating, and occasionally emotional when you realise your favourite body part has abandoned ship. But it’s also empowering in the quietest way.

Because every small movement is proof:

I’m still here.

I’m still capable.

And I’m getting stronger — even if my arse needs a motivational speech.

One rep at a time.

Ny small space at mums