ACT II

I was living in Chicago after graduating college with a degree in musical theatre. Destined for greatness, I didn’t sit around just waiting to be discovered. I was doing all of it: acting classes, voice lessons, auditions, agent meetings. And headshots. Very expensive headshots.

Because I was twenty-five years old and had no marketable skills or experience, I was also working three low-wage jobs in order to afford my tiny studio apartment in a high-rise on Lake Michigan. It had a stunning view—even if I was rarely home to enjoy it.

My time was stretched thin and my brain was scattered with competing schedules and endless priorities. There was no time for self-care or exercise. Meals consisted of fast food grabbed and gobbled between shifts at one job, on the way to the next.

I wasn’t fat. But the body that had been naturally conditioned through college dance classes was growing weaker and softer.

One afternoon, on a beautiful spring day, I wandered into a bookstore on my lunch break to browse and steal a few quiet moments for myself. In the magazine section, I drifted past travel and design and eventually landed in fitness. One of those muscle magazines caught my eye.

I picked it up and studied the guy on the cover. His body was impossibly lean and sculpted in a way that seemed both impressive and unreal. I felt envious.

Beside his image was an advertisement for a twelve-week fitness challenge.

Take Control of Your Body. Take Control of Your Life

I wasn’t athletic; I had never played sports. I aspired to a physique like the guy on the cover, but my attempts at exercise had always been short-lived and abandoned.

I stood there for—I don’t know how long—flipping through the magazine for more information.

There Will Never Be a Perfect Time to Start. START TODAY.

A few minutes later, I was at the register.

I started the following Monday.

Right away, the program wasn’t easy. It demands six days a week—strength training on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays; cardio on the other three; Sundays off. The meal plan is just as strict: six small meals a day, six days a week, with a single “free day” on Sundays.

I look forward to that free day more than I care to admit.

I have never been so sore in my life. It hurts to sit. It hurts to stand. It hurts to bend or straighten my arms. Everyday activities like climbing stairs, putting on clothes, or showering suddenly become challenges in pain tolerance.

I love it.

As my body adjusts, the soreness remains—but something else takes its place. I feel stronger. More awake. I have a developing awareness and control over muscles I didn’t even know I had.

However, just shy of four weeks into the program, life gets in the way. With a particularly busy week, I miss one workout and promise to make it up the next day. The next day, I don’t. I tell myself I’ll skip my free day and roll it into the following week.

I’m too busy. I lose focus and abandon the program altogether, disappointed with yet another failure.

Life resumes as normal. Back to the grind, fast food and no time for myself.

Six months later, as summer draws to a close, my circumstances have shifted. Instead of three jobs, I’ve settled into one that pays the bills. I desperately want to regain that feeling I had—albeit briefly—when I was taking care of myself.

I dust off the old magazine and decide to try again—this time with the intention of finishing. It feels urgent in a way I can’t explain, as if I’ve already glimpsed the answer once and walked away from it.

Take Control of Your Body. Take Control of Your Life

Having failed once, I make a radical choice: I’m going to focus—for the next three months—on only one thing at a time. This program. No more interruptions. No more distractions. My fledgling acting career? I put it on the shelf—for now. No more last-minute auditions or callbacks or rehearsals.

I begin again. My God, I’m sore! And this time, I stay with it. I follow the program to the letter: six workouts a week, six meals a day.

After four weeks of consistency, I notice something unexpected. I feel better physically, yes—but more than that, I feel good about myself. For the first time, when I say I’m going to do something, I believe myself. Day by day, I’m gathering evidence that I can be trusted to honor my word.

Around eight weeks in, Halloween approaches. As I walk down the street toward a costume shop, I catch myself making eye contact with people as I pass. I’m smiling. Saying hello. At the store, I’m relaxed. Outgoing. Even flirty.

I feel attractive—but that’s not the point. For the first time in my life, I’m fully present. The background noise that used to follow me everywhere—the insecurities, the mental checklist, the constant sense of being behind—has gone quiet. There’s nowhere I’m rushing off to. Nothing I’m trying to hide.

All that’s left is peace.

The final day of my program arrives just days before Thanksgiving. The weather has grown cold, but remains sunny. After finishing my final workout, I take the train home and escape the cold—entering my warm apartment and stripping off my wet t-shirt. I mix a protein shake and pause to watch the sun reflecting off Lake Michigan.

A full-length mirror leans up against the wall next to the windows, and I turn to reflect on my twelve weeks of progress. The body looking back at me is lean, strong, and undeniably different from the one with which I started. But it isn’t the definition in my muscles or the clearly defined abs that hold my attention. It’s the look in my eyes.

There’s water coming out of them.

It may as well have been the guy on the cover of that magazine staring back at me. I remembered how envious I’d felt that day, how his image had stirred up my own insecurities.

But there I was.

Strong. Confident. Present.

The tears had nothing to do with my physical transformation. They came from the raw grit of committing to something and seeing it through, regardless of obstacles—and from a sudden, undeniable recognition.

If I can do this, I can do anything I put my mind to.

Committing to a goal—and overcoming obstacles in pursuit—is the very definition of grit, strength, and accomplishment.

A question haunted me in the days that followed.

If I can do anything, what would be worthy of giving my life to?

Suddenly, service felt meaningful to me—to help people who so desperately want to feel some sense of control and stability in their lives. To empower them in building a solid foundation of self-confidence upon which to launch their dreams, their careers, their families.

That. That would be worth giving my life to.

All I ever wanted from that moment was to help others have an experience like the one I had. My aspirations to be an actor dissolved after those twelve weeks. Seeking fame and fortune never again seemed important to me. And since then, I’ve never felt the need to seek out the attention or approval of others.

I took that experience and poured it into building a career as a fitness professional and climbing my way to the top of that ladder, helping hundreds of people in the process.

But that’s a story for another day.