As I lay upon the red towel we use instead of a yoga mat, my legs first outstretched, then, seconds later, folded, with my knees moving towards me, then sprung upwards so they were poised above my face, I marvelled at the grace with which I was able to orchestrate these movements. It’s been a year since I first asked my partner to share his exercise routine with me. I’ve written before about how I struggled then with many of these strength-training exercises. My core was limp, my arms couldn’t support the rest of me during a side-plank, and each time we began, I would feel a sense of dread. Had I not had my partner beside me, patiently motivating me, easing me into the whole affair, tricking me, on occasion, into continuing with my clumsy attempts, I would perhaps not have persisted. One year later, I’m so thankful that I stuck with the programme. Exercise has now become a part of my every day. It’s something I make time for almost every morning. It’s changed my life.

Most significantly, unlike every other previous attempt, this time around I didn’t get into it to ‘lose weight’. I could easily have, but my partner had suggested that this form of motivation was dubious. He wanted me to focus instead on being fit and enhancing my stamina. This meant I made absolutely no record of how much I weighed before we began, nor do I remember my ‘vital statistics’. Within the first few weeks I could already tell I had shaved off some centimeters off my waistline. Clothes felt a bit looser. But none of that mattered to me, or I didn’t allow it to matter. Instead of torturing my self-esteem by looking for external manifestations of ‘results’, or even relying on other people’s gazes to inform or validate my suspicions about being healthier, I concentrated my energies on my perception of myself.