I have always put myself second. Family first, partner first, job first, duties first. Me second. Sometimes even third. I used to believe I had time. Time to fix things, to try again, to become the man I always dreamed of being.
But somewhere between the long workdays, relationship that didn’t go the way I’d hoped, and the quiet evenings spent scrolling with envy through other people’s perfectly filtered lives, I realized something had crept in: regret.
Not the sharp, dramatic kind you see in movies. Mine was quieter. Slower. It showed up in doubts – what would have happened if I had taken another job, if I had said things differently… what if? The thing is, in history books, you don’t see that word – if.
And here’s another thing – regret doesn’t shout. It whispers. It doesn’t punch you in the face. It sits on the shoulder like a weight that gets heavier with each passing year. I told myself I was too busy. That life was complicated. That maybe my time had passed.
Maybe you’ve told yourself the same.
That was my excuse. Work. Relationships. “Responsibilities.” It sounded noble. It felt justified. I remember the exact moment things shifted. It wasn’t some big, cinematic turning point. It was a random Tuesday. I caught a glimpse of myself in a window. Not just the weight I had gained or the posture I was slouching in – but the look in my eyes. Tired. Disconnected. Like I had stopped expecting anything exciting to happen.
I sat down that night and said to myself, “You don’t need a miracle. You just need a plan. And maybe… maybe some help.”
That was hard to admit. I had spent years being the guy people turned to. The fixer. The strong one. Asking for help? That felt like weakness. That was admitting defeat and giving up. Or so I believed – at first.
But I did it.
I reached out to a coach – not just for fitness, but for clarity. Someone who could help me set small goals, hold me accountable, and remind me I wasn’t broken – I was just stuck.
What happened next wasn’t magic. It was slow. Real. Sometimes frustrating. There were weeks I didn’t see any progress, because I kept focusing on the trees and couldn’t see the forest. But it was progress – now I can tell.
I started lifting again, this time with structure and purpose. I cleaned up my eating – not obsessively, but with intention. I had conversations I had been avoiding. I even started looking at my own reflection again – not with shame, but with curiosity:
Which muscle will manifest today? Which vein will show up to the world?
I didn’t believe the mirror when I saw my six-pack appear for the first time in my life. I was 48. That was two years ago. And even today, I’m not “done.” I’m not perfect. I’m not trying to be. But I’m no longer living in the shadow of what I didn’t do – and regretted not doing afterward.
If you’re reading this and feeling that same quiet weight, I want you to know something:
It’s not too late. It’s never too late. To feel better. To become fit and feel jacked. To move differently. For your clothes to fit better – or to walk proud even without them. It’s never too late to build what you believed was impossible, out of reach, or lost forever. But you might need to do something uncomfortable first – just like I did.
Admit you can’t do it alone. Admit it is better to be guided.
And that’s not weakness. That’s wisdom. We were never meant to figure it all out in isolation. So maybe your version of this story starts today. With one message. One commitment. One decision to stop letting regret write the ending.
Let’s rewrite it together, shall we?
