It’s becoming increasingly apparent that giving a shit about someone other than yourself is actually no longer a thing.

‘It’s OK to fall’ she says as I hover precariously in my left side aeroplane, and for some reason this causes hot tears to prick at the back of my eyes.

It’s easy to be all ‘the obstacle is the way’ and ‘focus on what you can control’ when you’re lifting well, you get a new match on tinder, and broccoli is two dollars a kilo.

You can just choose to show up and be yourself, and you don’t need an invitation to do that.

‘Because, Mum, if the decal is wrinkled, I am obviously a fucking failure, at everything.’

It didn’t really ever occur to me that my obsessive nature and necessity to control every aspect of my life was perhaps not essential.

I know my blog is all about (mostly) me trying to be an athlete, but I honestly don’t seriously consider myself to be one.

Fuck balance and fuck living your life in fear.

Other kids were still piss farting around with their two dimensional felt mice with beads for eyes, and I had made a fucking dinosaur.