The week I had a biopsy felt like an interruption to the life I have been quietly trying to rewrite. Sitting in the clinic, missing Cookie’s practice, I suddenly had time to notice things I had been putting off. That space made me look at my life and my body without the usual distractions.

At thirty-one, the body keeps a clear score. Mine shows high blood pressure, dizziness when I stand up too fast, and about forty-four pounds more than what feels right. My BMI flashes a warning that I can no longer ignore… These are not emergencies, but they are evidence that I have taken better care of my mind than of my body lately, and that the two are connected.

Therapy and medication changed everything for me. They helped me stop smoking and drinking in ways that made my decisions worse, and they taught me to slow down and think. People worry that medication will take away their spark. I understand that. In my early twenties I chased a louder kind of energy: Freeletics three times a week, cold showers, and nights full of dancing with friends. Medication eased the racing in my head and quieted the constant need for stimulation and excitement, and for that I am grateful. That calm allowed solitude to do its work and brought back things I love — writing, painting, reading with real focus — but it also left me with lower social energy and less drive to move my body on purpose. I enjoy the gentler, steadier life, yet I can feel the cost: I am more hesitant to put myself out there, more self conscious about exercise and socializing, and I have to work to rebuild stamina for long stretches of research.

So yes, what has been slower to come back is consistent, intentional exercise. Walking and hiking are part of my job and my life because I walk dogs and Cookie is always moving, but those miles were usually about clearing my head rather than training my body. So I began to add small, structured practices: a few minutes each day on a yoga mat with a couple of blocks for support, jump rope to open my lungs, and short runs that I sometimes do with Cookie and sometimes on my own. I do not call it a crusade. It is a set of small promises to myself: show up, move a little, and be kind to the body that carries my thinking.

Cookie and I have our own shared routine of care. Flyball gives her focused joy, and quick drills help her burn energy and sharpen her attention. Lately, however, neighborhood walks have become more tense. She has grown more reactive, fixating on people, children, and other dogs from distances that used to be fine. Our routine has not changed, so I suspect spring is partly to blame; there are simply more people and dogs out. My plan is to be more consistent with training, more deliberate in our outdoor time, and more attentive to what triggers her so we can both feel calmer.

Small physical improvements have already shown up. My tongue is less sore and the swelling has gone down. Those small signs feel like real progress, proof that bodies, like stories, can be revised. I am neither dramatically reborn nor falling apart. I am choosing steady, small changes: classes to learn safer, smarter movement; precise workouts rather than flashy ones; clearer play for Cookie; and more patience for the slow climb back to balance.

There is hope in small steps. Cookie wants to run, and I want to be strong enough to keep up. That is simple motivation, and it is enough for now.

With love, Cookie and Seda 🌊