Change IS life.

That is precisely why Charles Darwin, much more eloquently than I, said exactly what he did about the “survival of fittest.” It is the species that is most adaptable to change.

This brings me to speak about perfectionism–something I have struggled with most of my life. The thing with perfectionism is that it assumes an endpoint. It pressures you to work towards some sort of destination–a concrete, tangible endpoint.

However, an endpoint, in a sense, is analogous to death. It symbolizes stagnation–a cessation of movement, an endpoint to all fluidity. Is this what we desire when we “strive for perfection”? Do we want death?

Nothing can be accomplished by NOT moving forwards. The very human body is reminiscent of this. Our breath grounds itself in movement. The automatic expansion/contraction of our ribcages, the push and pull of our diaphragm–these intricate movements create continually changing pressures, which essentially, allow us to live!

Another beautiful example is human muscles! They begin to decay once they are no longer moving. Even our cognition–the way we think–the way we recall memories is fluid. In fact, a memory is an amalgamation of different changing experiences. We combine what our eyes saw with that which our ears heard, and that with the smells, and tastes we identified with the situation to form a memory.

Fluidity–movement–these are mechanisms that are vital to existence of life. I’m beginning to think that chronic stress and existential anxiety have to do with attempting to go against this ever-changing fluidity.  Perhaps depression and all of its siblings rise from attempting to contain the human spirit within a subset of rigid inflexible boundaries.

The truth is that there is nothing absolutely inflexible in life; these are life’s beloved “gray areas”. The only certain inflexible truth is death. Nothing in life lasts forever–not the “good” or “bad.” Everything changes, and resisting that universal law does not benefit any creature. Change continues to happen, with or without my permission–with or without my acceptance.

What does this all mean in terms of fitness? Fitness is movement. It is fluid, everchanging and adapting. Fitness is reflective of life. Due to its dynamic nature, it lies in perfect harmony with the universal law of change. In moving, we are changing–each step, each motion, it’s unlike the one before it. We, therefore, begin this intimate dance with the universe–reflecting and mirroring its majestic, consistently inconstant ways.

But fitness, like life, can sometimes begin to feel like a punishment. Why? I can’t answer that question without discussing some of the”rigid” boundaries we place around it: weight, BMI, body fat percentage and measurements. These are our attempts to house the discomfort that comes alongside the fact that nothing lasts. We cannot keep our “dream body” forever–unless we kill it while we have it. Our body will change. Fluctuations are normal, natural, expected, UNDENIABLE.

One day, we may have to buy a different pair of jeans. One day, our thighs may touch. One day, we may not have a six-pack, etc. But we cannot keep fearing that day, and ignore celebrating what already “is.”

Ever since I have been a child, I have always loved water. I think this is why. It’s weightless. It’s fluid, moving, changing. Like life, the more you try to fight its very nature, the deeper the water pulls you in–and before you know it, you are drowning–or at best, fighting exhaustively to stay afloat. It’s panic.

But the moment you let go–the moment, you relax, and surrender yourself to the water, you are safe. Regardless of how counterintuitive that seems, you find that you gently rise to the surface. You find yourself supported, held, and lovingly embraced in the arms of water–in the arms of fluidity–in the arms of life.

It is okay. You are okay.