I Don’t Do That Stuff, Bro.

At some point, I stopped following the line.

The other day at the gym, I was in the middle of my workout—Pilates, strength, and loaded mobility work, slow and deliberate.

I was using a 20-inch plyo box, not for box jumps, but as a tool. I had turned it into a raised platform: balancing on top for the Series of Five, using it as a short-box reformer dupe with my feet hooked into a sled stored against the wall. Incline planks. Toe taps. Spine curls. A front split with one leg elevated on the box, the other knee grounded.

Nothing explosive. Just control, precision, and attention.

A guy came up to me and said,
“Oh, the guy before you was doing box jumps on this. I want to see you doing those.”

I looked at him and said,
“I don’t do that stuff, bro.”

And then I went right back to my workout.

What I’ve learned about my body

I haven’t done box jumps, battle ropes, or anything that resembles CrossFit in a very long time—probably over five years.

At first, it was a practical decision. I knew I couldn’t maintain my connection, alignment, and control while moving that fast or absorbing that much impact. My body would bypass what mattered just to survive the movement.

So I stopped.

That doesn’t mean I stopped training. I do plenty of other things. I lift. I challenge myself. I work hard; but I work deliberately.

Over time, that decision became something deeper.

I learned that connection and control matter more to me than intensity for intensity’s sake. That exhaustion isn’t proof of progress. And that I get to decide what strength looks like in my own body.

The uncertainty—and why it doesn’t bother me

Will I ever return to heavier, more high-impact, “gym bro”–style workouts?

Honestly, I don’t know. And it doesn’t bother me.

Because I’ve already evolved further than I ever could have imagined ten years ago—back when I was out of shape, only worked out occasionally in kickboxing classes, drank too much, and smoked cigarettes.

I didn’t arrive here by forcing myself into someone else’s version of fitness. I got here by showing up consistently, paying attention, and making my practice my own.

That evolution didn’t happen suddenly. It unfolded slowly, over years—five of them spent training in a way that actually supported my body instead of fighting it.

Living inside my body

I still get self-conscious sometimes—especially around the holidays. A little weight gain happens. I notice it.

But I also know myself now.

I know I’ll lose what I gain in a month or two, the same way I always do, without punishment or panic. No big deal.

What matters more to me is that I feel better living inside my body than I ever have. I feel connected. I feel capable. I feel at home.

Those external things—an extra layer of softness, a temporary fluctuation—don’t carry the same weight they once did. They’re no longer the measure of whether I’m “doing it right.”

Why I don’t make New Year’s resolutions

This time of year, people feel pressure to suddenly reinvent themselves.
New routines. New rules. New punishments dressed up as motivation.

But bodies don’t work that way. And meaningful change doesn’t either.

Nothing real happens overnight.

It evolves.

Through repetition.
Through patience.
Through discernment.
Through learning what actually serves you—and letting the rest go.

What I’m carrying forward

Every day, I discover a new connection in my body, a new layer of control, or a deeper understanding of how things work together instead of in isolation.

That kind of progress doesn’t come from chasing harder workouts or forcing transformation at the turn of the calendar. It comes from staying in a relationship with the body—paying attention, refining, listening.

I’m not making resolutions.
I’m continuing something that’s already working.

I don’t feel obligated to do a certain workout.
I don’t need to prove anything.
I don’t need to justify my choices.

I’m doing what feels right.
I’ve been doing it consistently for years.
And that—quietly, steadily—is more than enough.