Our Bodies Are Our First Homes

Today marks six years since my brother Eric died. Anniversaries like this are strange. Those of us who have lost someone very close don't need a special day to remember them. They are with us every single day.

But anniversaries carry weight, whether I like it or not.

Today, I find myself thinking about who my brother was and how he lived. My brother always loved to be outdoors. We grew up in a tiny town where biking, hiking, swimming, and disappearing into the woods until dinner were simply what children did. I remember full days when he and I would ride our bikes through the streets of our hometown, looking for new swimming holes and building trails and bike jumps. 

Eric loved cycling. 

To him, it wasn’t just exercise. It was freedom. It was coping. It was where he felt most like himself.

In the time before his death, Eric had stopped riding. 

I don't know exactly what that meant to him. I can't tell that story for him. But I do know he lost more than a workout when he stopped. 

So many of us use our workouts as an outlet. Sure, we want to stay in shape, to burn calories and tone our muscles; but for many of us, it is SO much more profound than just that. 

Over time, the reason many of us keep showing up has very little to do with calories or waistlines. We show up because movement reminds us we're alive.

It becomes a quiet ceremony of gratitude for the body carrying us through this world.

We all begin for different reasons. Some come to lose weight. Some to ease physical pain. Some to quiet anxious minds. Some simply to feel like themselves again. 

I can’t tell you how many women I train who say to me, “this is the one hour when I am not working on someone else’s life in my whole day.” For many, it is the ONLY time they take fully for themselves. 

That hour they spend in a class or with a trainer or biking through their town, that is the hour that they get to be fully alive; fully themselves. That is not selfish; that is an act of honoring yourself.

That is the power of our bodies in movement. Bodies were designed to move.

Movement changes our chemistry. It regulates stress hormones, supports emotional well-being, sharpens our thinking, and reminds us that we're capable of surviving really hard things. It's as essential to our well-being as sleep, nourishing food, meaningful relationships, and purpose.

I also want to be clear: movement is not a cure for depression. I know this because I spent nearly six years living in a deep depressive state. I remained active throughout that time and I can tell you, exercise did not erase my suffering.

But it gave me somewhere to put it.

It offered relief when relief was hard to find. It allowed me to keep showing up for myself physically when I couldn’t quite do it mentally. 

People sometimes ask why my work includes weightlifting, writing, yoga, Reiki, breathwork, meditation, and end-of-life care.

To me, they aren't separate practices.

They're different pathways leading to the same place.

Helping people care for their bodies isn't about chasing some aesthetic standard. It's about creating pathways back to ourselves.

Sometimes that path is through a heavy barbell.

Sometimes it's through a quiet walk.

Sometimes it's through a single, intentional breath.

And sometimes, it's simply having someone sit beside you and remind you that you don't have to carry it alone.

So today, as I remember my brother, the miles he rode, the trails he explored, and the joy he found on two wheels; I’m reminded that movement wasn't something he did. It was part of who he was.

Maybe that's why I believe so deeply in helping people find their way back home to their bodies—not because movement fixes everything, but because our bodies are the place where we experience everything.

They are the only home we carry with us our entire lives.

They deserve our care.

They deserve our gratitude. 

May we move them with joy and reverence for as long as we are able.