The Year We Finally Did Our Annual Blood Test (And Why I’m Glad We Did)

So, a few years back, my husband and I had this brilliant grown-up idea:

“Let’s do an annual blood test together! You know, to monitor our health like responsible adults.”

It sounded so simple and mature. Except... we never actually did it.

Every year, it became a sort of running joke. I’d say, “Shall we go this month?” and my husband—usually while staring lovingly into his coffee—would say, “Next month, dear. This month is a bit busy.” And of course, I didn’t want to go alone. Partly because it felt less scary with him, but also because I imagined us sipping tea afterward, going over the results like two doctors on a medical drama. The more, the merrier, right?

Finally, this year, we did it. We made an appointment, fasted the night before, 8 hours of sleep, and walked into the lab hand in hand, and our 3 children. Honestly, I felt oddly excited. Like we were on a quirky date, except instead of dessert, we got our veins poked.

Now, if you’ve been following my blog, you’ll know I started my healthy lifestyle journey in 2023. I became that woman who actually drinks water (a lot!), watches her sugar, and even gasp loves weight lifting. My BMI? Finally in the healthy range. My energy? Up! My mental health? So much better.

So yes, I was feeling rather smug about the blood test. I thought, “They’ll probably want to frame my results on the wall.”

And the verdict?

Mostly good. My cholesterol? Normal. My kidneys and liver? Doing their jobs like pros. But—and there’s always a but—my blood sugar was borderline. Officially, I’m pre-diabetic. And my uric acid? Slightly above the normal range. The doctor wasn’t alarmed, but gently reminded me that even with a healthy routine, there’s always room to do more.

At first, I’ll admit, I felt a bit deflated. After all that effort, after choosing oats over cake and going on sunrise walks instead of extra sleep, it was still... not perfect. But then it hit me:

This is exactly why we do annual blood tests.

Not because we want gold stars from the lab, but because prevention matters. Knowing your numbers means you can adjust before something becomes dangerous. It’s not about being perfect; it’s about staying proactive. No matter how much good our looks, how many weights we can lift. That is not the ultimate measurement of health.

And doing it together? That made it even better. My husband and I sat with our printouts, comparing notes like two nerds in love. We even planned small changes together—like we skipped breakfast and less rice during dinner (which, I confess, he likes more than I do).

Reflecting on this, I realised something important:

Healthy living isn’t a finish line; it’s a lifelong partnership—with yourself and, if you’re lucky, with someone who’ll hold your hand through fasting blood draws at 8 a.m.

So if you’re reading this, wondering if it’s time for your annual health check, let me say: do it. Bring a friend, a partner, or your sibling and maybe your kids. It will be fun. Turn it into something positive rather than something scary. Because catching small issues early is the best kind of self-care there is.

And as for me? I’m doubling down on water, movement, and joy. Because health isn’t only about numbers—it’s about how we feel, live, and love.

To strength, sweat, and showing up every day —

Finding power in motherhood and muscle

The Morning I Overslept... and Witnessed a Big Brother Moment

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My weekday usually starts at 5 a.m. Like clockwork, my alarm sings its obnoxious little tune and I zombie-crawl out of bed, regretting every single episode I watched the night before. But hey, Monday to Friday, that’s life. The only exception? Weekends. On Saturdays and Sundays, I let myself sleep in. Not like, teenager-sleep-in—but until a glorious 7 or 8 a.m., which, for moms, is basically noon.

Now, here’s the twist. My husband? He’s always up before me. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I married a man who voluntarily wakes up to cook breakfast. By 7 a.m., you’ll hear the gentle hum of the kitchen fan and the chop-chop-chop of onions being expertly diced. The smell of garlic? That’s the unofficial alarm clock in our house.

Typically, I roll out of bed just in time to catch him finishing the fried noodles. Then it’s my turn to take the parenting baton and serve the kids their breakfast. It’s a well-rehearsed routine—he cooks, I plate, we both survive.

But last Saturday... something magical happened.

I’d had a headache the night before and clearly didn’t hear my alarm. When I finally stirred, it felt like I had bricks in my skull. I lay there, trying to will my body upright. My limbs were on strike, and my brain was sipping coffee somewhere without me. Ten full minutes later, I managed to peel myself off the bed.

I walked into the kitchen, expecting the usual chaos: hungry kids asking, “Where’s breakfast?” and my husband still frying eggs or something. But instead, I saw him.

Our eldest.

He stood at the dining table, carefully scooping noodles onto three plates. One for each of his younger siblings. His little brothers were already seated, patiently waiting—hands folded, eyes wide, not a single “I’m hungry!” in sight. It was like watching a mini parent in action. I blinked, just to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating from lack of sleep.

My husband was there too—cleaning the stove, looking just as stunned and misty-eyed as I was.

“He just started doing it,” he whispered, as if saying it louder would break the spell.

That moment right there? Pure gold. The kind of moment parenting books don’t prepare you for. The kind that sneaks up between ordinary routines and makes you cry into your coffee.

Because here’s the thing: parenting is often about showing up. Day in, day out. Cooking, cleaning, disciplining, loving. You don’t always get a round of applause. Sometimes, you just get sticky fingers and loads of laundry. But then—you get a morning like this.

A moment when your child, the one who once needed help putting on his socks, steps up without being asked. A moment that says, “I’ve been watching. I’ve learned. I’m ready to help.”

It made me realize that children become responsible when we model responsibility, and that all those mornings of quietly serving them breakfast were never just about food. They were lessons. And our eldest? He was paying attention all along.

So, to all the tired moms out there dragging themselves through their morning routines—hang in there. You’re planting seeds that bloom when you least expect it.

And if you ever need proof that the little things matter… well, just oversleep once in a while. You might be surprised by the magic you wake up to.

To strength, sweat, and showing up every day —

Finding power in motherhood and muscle

How I Accidentally Fell Into the World of Chinese Mini Dramas

And I Might Be Fluent in Fictional Mandarin

It all started with a scroll. You know the kind — you're lying in bed after a long day, thumb mindlessly flicking up your Facebook feed, promising yourself just five more minutes before sleep.

And there it was. A dramatic scene. A girl in a wedding dress standing in the rain. A cold, impossibly handsome CEO yelling something intense (probably about betrayal or fake marriage contracts — the usual). The subtitles flew by. The background music was overly dramatic. I rolled my eyes. I scrolled past. Then… I scrolled back.

Just one episode, I told myself.

Ppfftt. Famous last words.

What followed next was a deep-dive into the whirlwind world of Chinese mini dramas — or as I now call it, “My Accidental Mandarin Crash Course.” These bite-sized episodes, usually 1-5 minutes each, pack more drama into 180 seconds than an entire season of your favorite K-drama. Think forbidden love, contract marriages, secret identities, and rich CEOs falling in love with poor but feisty girls — all before dinner.

I found myself hunting down titles in the comment section like some kind of undercover drama detective. Someone would mention the name, I’d copy-paste it into YouTube, and poof! I was three episodes deep before realizing I hadn’t blinked in ten minutes.

Now, weeks later, I’ve watched at least 100 Chinese mini dramas. I’ve picked up Mandarin phrases I never planned to learn (including, but not limited to, how to dramatically say “You lied to me!”).

And now watching plot twists while brisk-walking at 4.8 km/h like a woman on a mission. I mean, who needs background music when there’s dramatic slow-motion crying, mistaken identities, and surprise hospital scenes? Honestly, nothing motivates me to keep running like a good old-fashioned cliffhanger.

And yes — I admit it: most of the storylines are completely fictional and ridiculously over-the-top. There's always a revenge plot. Someone always gets amnesia. And the cold CEO inevitably turns into a cinnamon roll by episode 27.

But that’s the charm, isn’t it?

Why We Love Chinese Mini Dramas:

1. They’re short and addictive — perfect for busy moms or anyone on a lunch break.

2. The acting is surprisingly good considering the runtime.

3. They provide escapism in the best way — colorful sets, glamorous outfits, and fairytale-level love stories.

4. They’re easy to follow, even with subtitles.

More importantly, in a world that can often feel chaotic and unpredictable, there’s something comforting about knowing the heroine will overcome her villains, the cold CEO will confess his love, and justice will be served… in 60 seconds or less.

Final Thoughts

If you’ve never fallen into the rabbit hole of Chinese mini dramas, consider this your gentle nudge. Just be warned — once you start, there’s no going back. You might start dreaming in subtitles, emotionally investing in a fictional heiress’s inheritance scandal, or dramatically sipping tea like a palace empress.

And hey — life is stressful. If watching a beautifully lit CEO fall in love with a girl who sells steamed buns on the street helps you unwind, then by all means, hit play.

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Got a favorite Chinese mini drama that kept you glued to the screen (or treadmill)? Drop it in the comments below! I’m always on the hunt for my next cardio-fueled obsession.

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To strength, sweat, and showing up every day —

Finding power in motherhood and muscle

Date Nights, Diapers, and Dirty Laundry: Keeping the Spark Alive in Motherhood

He’s Still My Husband, Not Just the Kids’ Dad — Remembering to Love Each Other First

The other night, I yelled, “Babe, where’s the remote?”

Three voices answered.

None of them were my husband.

And in that moment — surrounded by noise, school bags, sippy cups, and a half-eaten fish finger — I realized something. My husband and I had officially been upgraded (or maybe downgraded?) to full-time co-parents. Somewhere between our firstborn’s diaper explosion and our third child’s last tantrum, we had stopped being us.

Balancing motherhood and marriage is a dance nobody really teaches you. You just kind of stumble through it, holding snacks in one hand and resentment in the other.

Don't get me wrong — I adore my children. But sometimes I miss us. The “us” that used to laugh at memes in bed. The “us” that used to get dressed up for a cheap movie date. The “us” that had inside jokes not involving Paw Patrol.

And then one evening, as I watched him load the dishwasher without being asked (yes, he’s a keeper), I remembered: He’s still my husband. Not just the kids’ dad.

Why That Realization Matters

We talk so much about parenting techniques and schedules, but rarely about how to stay connected after kids. The truth? Our marriage is the foundation. When it’s strong, our whole house feels steadier. When it’s ignored… well, the cracks show up in everything — even the bedtime routine.

And no, rekindling doesn’t mean a spa retreat or three-day getaway. (Though if you offer, I won’t say no.)

It’s the Small Stuff

We started small — teeny, tiny things that made us feel like a couple again:

• A kiss on the forehead before the chaos starts

• Texting “I love you” in the middle of work

• Sitting down for coffee together after bedtime

• Saying “thank you” even for the obvious stuff, like taking the bins out

• Choosing to watch a show together instead of silently scrolling on separate phones

And you know what happened? We laughed more. We fought less. We felt like teammates again, not just co-managers of Household Inc.

What Changed For Us

We didn’t become Pinterest-perfect. The kids still interrupt mid-sentence. The laundry mountain is still Everest. But we’re closer. More patient. More present.

Sometimes I look at him and think, Wow, we’ve been through baby puke and broken sleep and school meetings — and I still fancy him. That’s magic.

To Every Mom Reading This…

If you feel like the “you” in your marriage is missing, you’re not alone. If you feel like your husband is more “Dad” than “Partner,” that’s okay too. The beautiful thing? You can bring the spark back — one tiny, conscious moment at a time.

Because before the babies, there was a love story. And guess what?

It’s still being written.

To strength, sweat, and showing up every day —

Finding power in motherhood and muscle

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From Diagnosis to Strength: Navigating Thalassemia with Our Little Warrior

“It looks like your son will need blood transfusions... for life.”

It has been four years since the doctor said those words — gently, but firmly — and the ground beneath me shifted. I nodded like I understood, like I was ready to be the calm, collected mother I always hoped to be. But inside? I was unraveling faster than my laundry in the spin cycle.

To be fair, we knew the risk. Both my husband and I are thalassemia carriers, which meant we had a 25% chance of having a child with thalassemia major. But when you’re planning for a baby, those odds feel like just numbers on a brochure. Surely that wouldn’t happen to us, right?

Then came 2019.

My second son, still a toddler, started falling sick frequently — fevers, fatigue, little infections here and there. “He’s just building his immunity,” I told myself while Googling toddler flu remedies at 2 a.m. But the doctors began monitoring his hemoglobin count. It kept dropping — slowly, 0.01 here, another drop there — until the truth couldn’t hide anymore.

A blood test confirmed it: he had thalassemia.

In 2021, just before he turned three, he began his blood transfusion treatments. And let me tell you — nothing prepares you for watching your tiny, bubbly child lie still while a needle is inserted into his vein. For hours.

There were three major hurdles each visit:

1. The pre-transfusion blood draw (cue: tears and bribery with stickers).

2. Inserting and securing the needle in his vein — not easy when your patient is wiggly and full of opinions.

3. Lying there, still, for hours until the transfusion finished.

And to make things extra spicy, I was pregnant with baby number three.

Initially, my husband wanted to come with us, but we realized it wasn’t sustainable. Our eldest needed to get to school, and we had to manage our home like a tag team. So I went alone — pregnant belly, toddler in tow — learning how to pack snacks, distractions, and an emergency backup of patience.

And yet, through it all, something beautiful unfolded.

Our family became stronger. We learned to operate like a team. We learned how to hold space for one another without falling apart. Most importantly, I stopped viewing my child as fragile — because he’s not. He’s fierce. He’s brave. He’s my little superhero with veins of steel.

As parents, we often think our job is to shield our children. But I’ve learned it’s just as much about being strong for them. Not because they can’t handle life — but because they watch how we handle it.

Yes, there are days I cry in the shower. Days I want to curl up and disappear. But most of the time? I show up. With love. With strength. With snacks. (Always snacks.)

And if you're a parent navigating a thalassemia diagnosis — or just trying to stay sane through the chaos of motherhood — know this: you’re stronger than you think.

To strength, sweat, and showing up every day —

Finding power in motherhood and muscle

5 Powerful Mindset Shifts That Transformed My Fitness Journey (Even as a Busy Mom!)

So, I’d finally found my motivation to stay healthy — my family. Ta-da! Step one: complete. Easy, right? Ha! If only. Now came the tricky bit: actually planning how to stay healthy. You’d think it would be simple — a few veggies, a jog, maybe a Pinterest board or two. But no. Real life involves delicious chocolate cake, toddlers, tantrums, and laundry mountains.

Along the way, I stumbled, sweated, and googled and watch youtube a lot. But I also learned a few golden tricks that made all the difference. So here it is — my no-nonsense, mum-tested list of what really helped me get fit (and stay sane).

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#1. Focus on Fat Loss, Not Just Weight Loss

Let’s get one thing straight — your worth is not defined by a number on a scale. I learned this the hard way. At the start of my fitness journey, I stepped on the scale every morning like it was my best friend and worst enemy rolled into one. If the number dropped, I was overjoyed. If it didn’t, I was ready to toss my healthy lunch out the window and sulk over a donut. Dramatic? Absolutely. But so relatable, right?

The truth is, weight loss can be misleading. It includes fat, water, and muscle — and sometimes, the scale doesn’t move even when your jeans start fitting better. That’s because you might be losing fat while gaining lean muscle — and that’s a good thing! Muscle takes up less space than fat, making you appear leaner and stronger, even if the number on the scale hasn’t changed.

So where am I now? Well — I started this journey at 58 kg, and after two years (and countless skipped desserts, toddler meltdowns, and early morning workouts), I’m now sitting at 52 kg. Now, I know what you’re thinking — “Only 6 kilos in 2 years?” But here’s the thing: this isn’t just weight loss. It’s fat loss. It’s feeling lighter, stronger, less bloated, and way more in control of my body. Some of my old jeans? They’re practically begging for a belt now.

So trust the process. Even slow progress is progress. This isn’t a crash diet or a one-month miracle — this is a realistic fitness journey for moms who want to feel alive again.

Celebrate your strength, not just your weight. Because losing fat and gaining your spark back? That’s the real glow-up.

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#2. Drink A Lot of Water

Here’s a confession: I used to think “drink more water” was the most boring advice ever. Like, how could something as basic as H₂O possibly make a difference in my fitness journey? But let me tell you — once I actually did it, everything changed.

First, the energy boost. I was so used to feeling sluggish by midday, and I blamed my job, my kids, the weather — everything but dehydration. But when I started drinking at least 2.5 litres of water a day, my focus improved, my headaches disappeared, and my cravings? Gone. Turns out, I wasn’t hungry — I was just thirsty!

Then came the glow. My skin stopped looking like tired laundry and started looking, dare I say… dewy? Hydrated skin is happy skin.

Water also plays a huge role in fat metabolism. If you’re working out and not seeing results, it might be because your body needs more water to process all that effort. Plus, staying hydrated helps with digestion, muscle recovery, and reducing water retention — ironic, but true!

Now I carry a reusable water bottle like it’s a designer handbag. Because, really — water is the cheapest, most effective beauty and fitness tool we have.

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#3. Enough Resting

I used to think rest was for the weak.

I mean, I’m a mum of three boys, a working chemist, and a woman who thrives on doing ten things at once — rest felt like some mythical luxury only people without laundry piles could afford. But here’s the plot twist: I was wrong.

Rest isn’t laziness. It’s recovery. It’s the part of your fitness journey where the magic actually happens. When you sleep, your muscles repair. Your hormones rebalance. Your brain finally gets the chance to go, “Ahhh… now we’re talking.”

I used to work out daily with zero rest days — thinking I was being “hardcore.” But guess what? I was just running myself into the ground. I was tired, cranky, and not getting stronger. Now? I listen to my body (and my dearest husband) . I rest without guilt (husband told me "It's okay, I'll take care of the kids" . I take naps if I need them. I block off Sundays for pure recovery (and cake, if I’m honest).

The result? More energy. Better workouts. Happier me.

So, if you’re like I was — sprinting on an empty tank — pause. Breathe. Rest. Because sometimes, doing “nothing” is exactly what your body needs to do everything better.

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#4. Consistent Working Out

Let’s talk about consistency — not perfection. Because honestly? I used to think I needed a full-blown workout schedule printed, color-coded, and signed by a personal trainer just to “do it right.”

Spoiler alert: I never followed any of them. Life kept happening — someone got sick, the laundry pile exploded. Again.

And here’s the part that makes me teary — I didn’t do it alone. My husband? He’s been my behind-the-scenes hero. While I squatted, lunged, and flopped dramatically through planks, he handled the chaos: snacks, kids homework, toddler negotiations.

Turns out, he was always ready to support me — I just needed to start.

And here’s the thing — it added up.

No, I didn’t suddenly sprout six-pack abs or get arms like Wonder Woman. But I did become stronger. I became more energetic, more disciplined, more… me.

Consistency isn’t sexy. It’s not dramatic. It’s not flashy. But it’s powerful. And the best part? It’s forgiving. Miss a day? Fine. Just show up the next day.

Because showing up — again and again — is what transforms routines into results.

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#5. Don’t Stress Yourself

Oh, stress. That uninvited guest who shows up even when you didn’t send the RSVP. I used to carry it around like a handbag — stylish, permanent, and far too full. I'd get headache and gastric countless times. Stress about the kids, my job, my body, my to-do list. 

But one day, after snapping at my 2nd kid wo repeatedly asking me why there are no megalodon. I want to see a megalodon! I realized something: stress was stealing my joy. And it was affecting my health more than any skipped workout ever could.

So I started to breathe. Like, actually breathe. I stopped obsessing over “progress” and began celebrating effort. If I worked out, great. If I didn’t, I’d stretch and promise myself to try again tomorrow. I reminded myself that fitness is a lifelong journey — not a race with a medal at the end.

Stress is sneaky. It disguises itself as motivation, but really, it just wears you out. So now, I choose grace over guilt. I remind myself I’m doing my best — and that’s more than enough.

So, lovely, don’t stress yourself. Be kind. Be gentle. Especially to you.

Because a happy heart beats any six-pack.

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#6. The Calorie Counting (Without Losing Your Mind)

Okay, hear me out.

I know weighing your food and counting calories sounds like something only fitness fanatics and people with six-pack abs do in their spare time while sipping protein shakes. But I did it. Me. A 38-year-old full-time working mum of three who once thought a food scale belonged only in MasterChef.

And you know what? It worked. Beautifully.

In the first year of my fitness journey, I read about calorie tracking and thought, “Why not?” So I downloaded a basic calorie-counting app, and began weighing everything—from my rice to my chips. At first, yes, it felt slightly ridiculous. But within weeks, something magical happened…

My bloated belly disappeared.
Not because I stopped eating—but because I finally understood how much I was eating.

Fast forward a year, and I now have what I call “Gym Rat Vision”—I can glance at a plate or a few of chips and estimate the calories like a magician pulling numbers from thin air. And when I do feel bloated these days, I know exactly why: I probably just went overboard (hello, siu mai). It’s no longer a mystery. It’s just a gentle nudge to slow down.

When my husband and I first began tracking together (yes, he’s my reluctant fitness partner), we kept it super simple. A free app. A tiny kitchen scale. No crazy rules. Just awareness.

And the best part?
I still ate chocolate cake. I just made room for it.
No starving. No overtraining. No guilt.

Turns out, sustainable weight loss isn’t about saying goodbye to all the foods you love. It’s about learning how to eat them—mindfully, and with a little maths (don’t worry, no calculator required).

So if you're a busy mom trying to lose belly fat, stop feeling tired all the time, or just want to feel like yourself again—give calorie counting a try. Not forever. Just for a little while. Think of it like budgeting… for your body.

You might be surprised how freeing it feels when you finally take control—without restriction.

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All these has been my mantra for more than 2 years now. And, for me it works. It is all about how we shift our mindset.

To strength, sweat, and showing up every day —

Finding power in motherhood and muscle

I Wasn’t Okay — Until I Was. My Fitness Journey at 38

I thought I was okay.

At least, that’s what I kept telling myself while pouring cereal with one hand and scrolling social media on the phone with the other.

Sure, I’d get breathless walking up a flight of stairs. My back would ache just from doing the dishes — and not even deep cleaning dishes. Just regular, non-sticky plates. And don’t get me started on how I’d collapse on the bed every night like a tragic soap opera character.

But still, I thought I was fine.

Until one day, about two years ago at the clinic, I stepped on the scale.

58 kg.

Now, for someone who’s 143 cm tall (yes, I'm officially “fun size”), that’s not just a number — it’s a wake-up call. I did what any panicked woman would do: I Googled my BMI. And there it was, in bold, judging font — Overweight.

That word hit harder than any passive-aggressive auntie comment ever could.

Suddenly, it all made sense. The fatigue. The aches. The way I couldn’t keep up with my kids at the at home. I wasn’t lazy or broken. I was simply unfit — and unhappy.

That day, I made a silent promise.

No more “New Year, New Me.” No more waiting until Monday, or until the moon aligned with Mars. I didn’t need another Pinterest board. I needed action. Right there. On the next breath.

Fast forward to today...

I’m now 52 kg — a healthy BMI for my height.

More importantly, I’m strong. I can lift weights. I can squat without making that embarrassing groaning noise. I can carry my toddler, groceries, AND hold my husband’s hand (romantically and functionally, thank you very much).

I’m 38 years old and fitter than I was at 28. And that feels like a miracle.

These days, I wake up with energy. I don’t dread workouts — I look forward to them. I’ve stuck to my home workout plan for 58 days straight, and while that number may not be flashy, it’s mine. Every drop of sweat, every sore muscle — I earned them.

This isn’t just a weight loss story. It’s a love story — between me and the body I’ve neglected for years.

It’s about realizing that taking care of myself doesn’t mean I’m selfish. It means I’m finally treating myself with the same care I give my kids, my job, and my husband.

And I’m not stopping here.

This blog will be my fitness diary — filled with routines, food choices, sweaty wins, motherhood chaos, love stories, toddler meltdowns, and everything in between.

So if you’re standing on the edge of your own “I’m okay” lie — I see you. And I’m here to say:

It’s never too late.

Not at 38. Not even if you’re tired, busy, or “bad at exercising.”

Start on your next breath.

You won’t regret it.

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To strength, sweat, and showing up every day —

Finding power in motherhood and muscle

P/S – Have you started your fitness journey yet?

How to Do It All (And Still Forget What Day It Is)

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7. A Day in My Life

My typical day starts at 5:00 a.m.

Either my alarm or my husband wakes me. First thing I do is wake up our eldest son — he’s in the morning school session. After a quick stretch, I head out to hang the laundry while my husband prepares breakfast. We usually only have a cup of coffee to start the day.

By 5:15 a.m., our eldest is still dozing on the sofa, so I wake him again. By now, breakfast is ready.

5:30 a.m. – He goes to shower, and my husband and I catch up for a few minutes before I take my turn. I usually do the dishes first, then get myself ready.

By 5:55 a.m., our son is all dressed and putting on his shoes. My husband is strict — he drives him to school at 6:00 a.m. sharp to avoid the traffic.

6:20 a.m. – My husband’s back. School’s just 2 km away.

6:45 a.m. – We wake the other two boys, and then he sends me to work.

12:45 p.m. – My husband fetches our eldest from school, then picks me up. We have lunch together at home.

1:45 p.m. – I return to work.

4:30 p.m. – Work’s done.

4:50 p.m. – Home again. My husband picks up our second son while I rest for 10 minutes, then start my 45-minute workout. Meanwhile, he starts preparing dinner.

6:20 p.m. – The kids have showered. My husband’s still cooking.

7:15 p.m. – We all have dinner together.

8:30 p.m. – I wash the dishes and do laundry while he rests with the kids.

9:00 p.m. – We take turns showering.

9:30 p.m. – Lights out.

I don’t always know what day it is. But I know I lived it fully.

To strength, sweat, and showing up every day —

Finding power in motherhood and muscle

Last Night, He Needed Help with Homework. This Morning, He Didn’t Need My Hand Anymore.

“Mama, do you want to see my house?”

It was a simple question — one I’d heard before in one form or another. But this time, my ten-year-old’s voice held something different. Not just excitement. Not just curiosity.

There was pride.

And that quiet seriousness that makes a mother pause in her tracks.

He was holding up his tablet, Minecraft glowing on the screen like a portal into his imagination. I set down the laundry, wiped my hands on my leggings, and gave him my full attention.

“Of course,” I said with a smile.

What followed was… honestly, impressive.

He took me on a full tour of the digital home he’d built — from the garden filled with tulips to the open-concept kitchen. He’d added furniture, lighting, even a chandelier (“with glowstone, Mama, because glass isn’t bright enough”). There was a second floor, a balcony, and — get this — a security system.

And while he walked me through every detail, from color schemes to flooring choices, something inside me shifted.

I wasn’t just looking at a game.

I was looking at growth.

My son, the boy who once couldn’t form a sentence without stumbling, was now confidently explaining architectural design. The same boy who once needed me to hold his spoon, now making virtual blueprints and solving problems with logic and creativity.

And just like that, my heart did that thing — that soft, painful twist we all get as mothers.

That how-is-time-moving-this-fast moment.

I blinked and saw flashes of him as a toddler — sticky fingers, endless questions, snuggles and giggles when I kiss his cheek repeteadly. I saw the delivery room, the fear, the joy, the aching love of those first few hours when I held him and whispered, “You’re mine.”

Now here he was, building his own world.

One block at a time.

In our home, my husband and I always talk about preparing our kids for the future — giving them roots and wings. We imagine their grown-up lives, their careers, the kind of adults they might become.

But I’ve learned something:

The future doesn’t always arrive with a diploma or a deep voice.

Sometimes it comes in the form of a pixelated house on a tablet.

Sometimes it knocks quietly, like this — a little boy saying, “Look what I made.”

And in that quiet moment, I didn’t just see a game.

I saw him. My firstborn.

Growing not just in size, but in spirit.

So no, he didn’t just build a house.

He showed me that he’s slowly, beautifully, becoming someone all his own.

And just like that, motherhood reminded me — again — how fast it all goes. How loud the quiet moments can be. And how every day, in a million small ways, our children grow right in front of us.

I am so glad I chose to stay healthy.

I chose to stay healthy — and in return, I got so much more than health.

I get to enjoy watching my kids grow. 

To strength, sweat, and showing up every day —

Finding power in motherhood and muscle

Imperfect Man, Perfect Match: 5 Things My Husband Taught Me Without Saying a Word

He doesn’t buy me things.

He forgets our anniversary sometimes.

He leaves his socks absolutely everywhere.

But every single morning — without fail — he makes me coffee.

Even when he's sick. Even when we’re not speaking.

It’s our quiet, sacred ritual. A small cup of loyalty.

I never know what I want to eat at a restaurant. But somehow, he always does — not just for me, but for the kids too.

He sees us, in ways no one else does.

And that’s why he’s the greatest lesson I’ve ever lived.

---

Most people judge him — the man who stayed home while I went to work.

They whisper: “A real man wouldn’t give up his career.”

But what they don’t see is the sacrifice.

He put his dreams on hold so mine could bloom — and so our little ones could grow up with love, not just supervision.

He held our babies, soothed their cries, and faced the world’s ridicule… while I chased purpose outside our home.

He never said it out loud, but I know — sometimes, it hurts him.

Still, he stayed. Quiet. Strong.

We didn’t fall into a fairytale.

We built something real — brick by brick, between school runs, hospital visits, and sleepless nights we almost gave up.

He never gave speeches.

But he taught me five unforgettable things — without ever needing to speak:

---

1. Loyalty isn’t loud.

He shows up. Always.

When I stay silent through pain, he is loud in his love — defending me, even from those closest to him.

If I ever did the unthinkable, I believe he'd still stand beside me. That’s how fiercely he protects me.

---

2. Patience is a love language.

We fight. We fall silent.

But when I sprained my ankle, he still massaged it every night — even while we weren’t speaking.

His actions whispered: "I may be mad, but I’m not leaving. You're mine to care for."

---

3. Strength is gentle.

He holds our children with the same hands that carry the invisible weight of judgment.

Most wouldn’t survive what he endures. But he bears it — all of it — for us. With grace.

---

4. Forgiveness is freedom.

I’ve failed him. Hurt him.

Yet he chooses grace, every time. Not because it’s easy — but because he loves me more than he needs to be right.

---

5. Love is a choice — made daily.

We are not perfect. Far from it.

But every day, even on the hardest ones, he chooses me. And I choose him.

---

He’s not the man I pictured at 20.

But he’s the man I thank God for at 38.

Imperfect? Absolutely.

But perfect — for me.

To strength, sweat, and showing up every day —

Finding power in motherhood and muscle

I Started My Fitness Journey at 38 — Here’s What Surprised Me Most

I never thought I’d say this… but I started my fitness journey at 38 — and I don’t regret a single step.

What surprises me most? I fell head-over-heels in love with weight lifting.

Yes, me. The woman who once believed that lifting weights would instantly turn her into The Hulk in yoga pants. I used to nod solemnly at the treadmill, thinking cardio was the holy grail of fitness. I jogged because I thought it was the right thing to do. Healthy moms run, right?

But here’s the truth: cardio drained me. I'd finish my jogs wheezing, sweaty, and one hairpin away from total collapse. The next morning, I'd wake up as if I’d fought off a godzilla in my dreams — sore, achy, and inexplicably tired.

Then came the ankle injuries. One after another. Like clockwork. I’d finally get into a groove, and bam — sidelined for weeks. Every restart felt like climbing Everest in Crocs.

One evening, as I was nursing my latest ice pack, my husband casually said,

"Why don’t you try weight lifting instead?"

I looked at him like he’d suggested joining a circus. “Me? Lifting weights? I’ll look bulky!”

But deep down, a little voice whispered:

“What if you’ve been wrong?”

So, I gave it a try. Hesitantly. Awkwardly. I started with baby dumbbells that looked like they belonged in a toy store. I followed beginner strength workouts online and set a tiny goal: just show up. 

And then… magic.

By week four, something shifted.

I didn’t just look stronger — I felt it.

I could carry all the groceries in one trip. I could scoop up my toddler mid-meltdown and walk across the mall like a champion. Laundry baskets? No problem. My mom strength was kicking in.

But here’s the best part: I finally understood that building muscle is a journey, not a fluke. Those “bulky” physiques I feared? They take years of serious effort — and often professional help — to achieve.

What I got instead was power. Confidence. Endurance.

And honestly? Joy.

I wasn’t just getting fit. I was becoming someone who owned her time, her body, and her choices.

Not just a mom.

Not just a wife.

But a woman who finally realized she’s worth showing up for.

So no, I didn’t start at 18. Or 28. I started at 38. And that’s perfectly okay.

Because the best time to begin isn’t when you’re “young enough” or “ready.”

It’s when you finally believe that you matter too.

So if you're standing at the edge of your own transformation, wondering if it’s too late — it’s not.

Your strong-mom era can begin today.

To strength, sweat, and showing up every day —

Finding power in motherhood and muscle

I Swapped My Scroll Time for Squats — and Here’s What Happened

For years, I told myself the same comforting little lie:

“I just don’t have time to work out.”

And honestly? It felt true. I’m a mom of three. I have a full-time job as a chemist. I clock in at 8am and usually clock out emotionally by 4:59pm. By the time I get home, my brain is mush, my energy is gone, and the only movement I want to do are my fingers on the tv remote.

So of course I didn’t have time for workouts.

Because workouts were for people with time. Not people with toddlers.

But... deep down, I knew it was an excuse.

You see, I live with this amazing human being who calls himself my husband — also known as “the calm in our chaotic storm.” He’s a stay-at-home dad, and honestly? He does everything. Cooking, grocery shopping, school runs, tantrum-taming — and he still manages to make me a cup of coffee every morning like some domestic wizard.

One weekend, I decided to really watch him. (Creepily. Like David Attenborough observing wildlife.)

He diced vegetables while one child screamed. He grabbed the laundry from the drying line and brought it in with a toddler shouting "daddy, can we buy tesla? " . He even hummed while doing the dishes. And of course sometimes, he matches my youngest screaming. 

And then — just when I thought he might sit down and collapse — he looked at me and said,

“The kids can eat first. I’ll do my workout now and have dinner after.”

Wait. What?!

That was the moment it hit me like a kettlebell to the shin.

He wasn’t just surviving the chaos. He was managing it. He had what I didn’t: discipline. Not just in parenting, but in his routines, his food, his mindset. Meanwhile, I had been walking around in a fog of exhaustion, feeling sorry for myself… while calling every break a “well-deserved rest.”

The truth?

I wasn’t overworked.

I was under-moving.

So I started small. And I mean tiny.

Instead of scrolling Instagram for 45 minutes, I moved my body. Sometimes it was stretching. Sometimes walking.

I swapped one sugary drink for water with water. 

I started eating proper meals instead of “toddler leftovers.”

I stopped using guilt as a reason to delay self-care.

Two weeks in, something shifted. I wasn’t magically less busy. But I felt better — more grounded, more alive. I stopped needing coffee to survive, and started wanting to move because it felt good.

*okay, I lied about not needing coffee. 

This journey isn’t about flat abs or tight thighs. It’s about showing up for myself with the same love I give everyone else. It’s about being strong enough to carry my children and my joy.

If you’re a mom who feels like she’s always last on the list — I see you. I was you.

Start with one small thing. That’s all it takes.

The rest? It’ll follow.

To strength, sweat, and showing up every day —

Finding power in motherhood and muscle

p/s : please listen to Rachel Platten "Fight Song". It really lifted up my spirit. 

From Burnout to Barbells: How I Found Myself Through Fitness at 38

Things changed so fast — I sometimes wonder if I accidentally walked into someone else’s life. I mean, who would have thought I, the woman who once thought walking to the fridge counted as cardio, would be into fitness at 38?

Let’s rewind a bit.

Back then, my days were… exhausting. I’m a chemist by profession, and while that might sound cool and Breaking Bad-ish, the truth is, most days felt like an endless loop of paperwork, lab sheets, unread emails, and quality monitoring. Oh — and the lab reports! Don’t even get me started. By 5 PM, I’d be so drained, I swore my soul floated out of my body and left me on autopilot.

It got so bad that I’d bring work home. Lab sheets spilled onto the dining table. I felt guilty every night — watching my husband and kids laugh without me. They’d choose their father over me, and honestly, I was jealous. I felt like I was fading out of my own family portrait. Everything felt like a never-ending cycle of eat-work-sleep-repeat.

And then, one day, it hit me. I was pouring from an empty cup. I wasn’t tired from being a mom or a chemist — I was tired from not taking care of myself.

I was burnt out, broken, and blaming the world — including the one person who never gave up on me: my husband. He supported me through it all, even when I snapped, even when I cried, even when I accused him of “not understanding.” Truth is, he did understand. I just wasn’t ready to hear it.

But everything shifted the day I chose me.

No, I didn’t start with some epic fitness program or fancy gym. I started by moving. A ten-minute walk. Some stretching. Eventually, a strength workout. Now, I make it a point to move my body every day — sometimes it's 10 minutes, sometimes it’s 45. But I do it. Not to punish myself, but to reclaim myself.

And guess what? I became calmer. More patient. Happier. I sleep better. I smile more. I show up for my family as me, not the exhausted ghost version of me. My clothes fit better, yes. I've lost inches. But the real transformation was in my mind.

I stopped seeing workouts as something to dread. They became my therapy. My me-time. My reminder that I matter too.

So no, I didn’t start my fitness journey at 18, or even 28. I started at 38 — and that’s okay. The best time to take care of yourself isn’t some magical age. It’s the moment you finally say: I’m worth the effort.

To every working mom, burnt-out wife, and woman stuck in the loop — it’s never too late. Fitness didn’t just change my body. It changed my life.

And I’m never going back.

To strength, sweat, and showing up every day —

Finding power in motherhood and muscle

The Night I Realized I Needed to Get Strong — Not Skinny

It was late in the evening, and I was running on the kind of empty only mothers know.

You know what I mean — that bone-deep, soul-sagging kind of exhaustion that doesn’t care if you’ve had coffee or a nap (because, let’s be honest, you’ve had neither). Our youngest had been sick for days. Red rashes bloomed across his chubby cheeks, and his tiny body was burning with fever. He just wanted me. Only me.

So off we went — my husband and I — to the nearest clinic. He dropped us off while he went to park the car. I slid out, opened the door, and scooped our toddler into my arms. Thirteen kilos of warm, fussy, clingy baby. I braced my core like I’d seen fitness girls do on Instagram (spoiler: I had no core), hoisted him up, and turned around to help my two older boys out of the car.

One hand held the baby. The other reached for the boys. And just like that, we shuffled into the clinic — a mama duck and her row of ducklings.

From the outside? I probably looked like any other tired mom. But inside? Something snapped.

As we waited, I sat down, breathless. My arms throbbed. My back was stiff. My heart pounded — not from emotion, but from sheer physical strain.

And then, this little voice in my head — part angel, part sass — whispered, “Go weigh yourself. Look, there’s a scale right there.”

So I did.

58 kg.

I’m only 143 cm tall — which meant, according to the cold-hearted BMI chart... I was officially overweight.

And suddenly, it all made sense: the back pain, the breathlessness, the constant fatigue. I wasn’t weak because I was tired. I was weak because I wasn’t strong. And that realization hit me harder than anything.

What if my husband wasn’t there next time? What if I had to carry all three kids by myself? What if I couldn’t?

That night, I made a promise — not for abs or a bikini body — but for my kids.

Just ten minutes a day.

A stretch. A walk. A few squats if I was feeling dramatic.

Not for vanity. But for stamina. For presence. For survival.

---

Fast forward two years...

Do I have abs?

Nope. Still squishy. Still snack-loving.

But—I can carry my toddler and a grocery bag and not die. I can chase my kids at the park without pulling something. I can hold space for my family and for myself.

That is strong. And I’m getting stronger every day.

Because strong moms aren’t born. They’re built.

In clinic waiting rooms. At 10pm on yoga mats. In quiet promises whispered over sleeping kids.

So if you’re a tired mom reading this — just know: it’s not about looking good. It’s about feeling capable. Being ready for the next unexpected moment.

To strength, sweat, and showing up every day —

Finding power in motherhood and muscle

p/s : Now, try reading this again—this time with Stacie Orrico’s ‘Strong Enough’ playing in the background. Let the music carry the weight of the moment. Feel the tension, the questions, the quiet breaking point 😃