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 😃

When the Mystery Got Too Messy… and So Did My Health

Okay, first of all… I haven’t read anything since my last blog entry.

Detective stories can be a bit too complex at times, and honestly, it just didn’t click with me—so I decided to leave it for now.

Just a quick recap: I recently came to realize that I’m not as healthy as I thought I was.

That moment was a bit of a wake-up call, and I’ll be sharing more about it in my next post.

Until then—take care and see you next time.