Day 8.
Apparently my body has realised that I’m serious about this whole getting fitter, playing hockey again, making better choices thing…
And it has begun industrial action.
Today we welcomed another headache, nausea AND pimples.
Because apparently Tannie Flo wasn’t bringing enough entertainment to the party.
Yay, hormones. 
But first… COFFEE. 
Today I had my first cup of coffee in an entire week.
No sugar. Just a little bit of milk.
And ohhhh, how I missed coffee.
I genuinely didn’t think I would because I’ve still had my energy drinks here and there, but apparently nothing quite replaces that first proper cup of coffee.
It was beautiful.
We had a moment.
I nearly apologised to it for abandoning it.
Food-wise, I kept making the better choices I’ve been trying to make. And honestly, eight days in, I’m pretty damn proud of that.
Then it was time for…
LEG DAY: THE SEQUEL NOBODY ASKED FOR.
I went in wearing my baggy tracksuit pants and oversized sweater.
Comfort level: 10/10.
Fashion week: absolutely fucking not.
Tights were strictly forbidden today thanks to the period bloat.
At least, I’m hoping it’s period bloat.
Because my scale was sitting there looking at me.
And I was looking at it.
Should I?
Shouldn’t I?
It reminded me of being a kid pulling petals off a flower.
Get on the scale…
Don’t get on the scale…
It’s probably bloating…
Just leave it the fuck alone…
Well.
I got on the fucking scale.
And technically…
I’m still down from where I started.
YAY ME!
Except…
I’m up from my last weigh-in.
So somehow I managed to lose weight overall and STILL let a small electronic square on my kitchen floor hurt my feelings.
Fantastic.
For approximately 30 seconds, my brain went:
EXCUSE ME?!
I’ve been exercising.
I’ve been drinking my water.
I’ve been making better choices.
I WALKED PAST BROWNIES THAT WERE LITERALLY WHISPERING TO ME.
I HAVE EARNED THIS.
But then the slightly more rational part of my brain eventually clocked in for work.
I’m on my period. I’m bloated. My hormones are having some sort of illegal rave. Weight fluctuates. One weigh-in doesn’t suddenly undo everything I’ve done.
And, most importantly:
I’m still lighter than when I started.
So technically…
Scale: ½ point.
Me: still winning overall.
Little bitch just caught me on a bad day.
And perhaps that’s another part of this journey I need to learn — not allowing one number on one particular day to decide whether I’m succeeding.
Because eight days ago, seeing that number might have sent me straight to the cupboard.
Today?
I swore at the scale and carried on.
We’ll call that progress.
Now back to the actual torture.
Leg day was successful…
But holy shit, it was HARD.
I definitely battled more with the weights today than I did last week.
And naturally, my brain immediately wanted an explanation.
Why?
Why could I do this last week but struggle today?
Is it the hormones?
The headache?
The nausea?
Fatigue?
Did I eat enough?
Is my body just having an off day?
And after thoroughly overthinking the entire situation, I reached the following highly scientific conclusion:
I don’t fucking know.
Today was simply harder.
And maybe that’s something else I need to learn.
Progress doesn’t necessarily mean that every workout is going to feel easier than the one before it.
Some days I’m going to feel stronger.
Other days, the exact same weight is apparently going to feel like somebody secretly replaced it with a small hatchback.
Today was a hatchback day.
But I pushed through.
Leg day: DONE.
Then apparently my upper body got jealous.
Because later I tried to blow-dry my hair and discovered that my arms had also submitted their resignations.
Shoulders?
Finished.
Biceps?
Finished.
Triceps?
Also finished.
I didn’t even DO upper body today.
Apparently blow-drying my hair is now part of my exercise programme.
And the sugary deliciousness remains untouched.
Another day of avoiding all the delicious sugary things I once could have demolished in approximately five seconds flat.
Which got me thinking…
Is there a world record for how quickly someone can eat an entire slab of chocolate?
Because I genuinely feel like I may have missed my calling.
I could’ve represented South Africa.
There could have been sponsorships.
Medals.
National pride.
Alas, that particular hobby has been put away for now.
Not because chocolate has suddenly become evil.
Chocolate remains magnificent.
But right now I’m trying to change some habits and teach myself that every craving doesn’t require an immediate response.
The chocolate will still be there another day.
Hopefully.
Otherwise, we riot.
On a slightly more serious note…
Over the last two days, I’ve also been working on something a little different.
I’m putting together an article about PCOS and the effects it can have on our bodies and our experiences with exercise and training.
It’ll be a little more serious than these daily ramblings — but don’t worry, not so serious that you’ll need caffeine and a medical dictionary to get through it.
One thing I’ve become increasingly aware of is just how differently PCOS can show up from one person to another.
So if you’re reading this and PCOS is part of your own story, and you’d like to share your experiences, symptoms or the things you’ve struggled with, please feel free to reach out.
I certainly don’t have all the answers, but I’m happy to listen, share what I’ve learned, and where something is outside my lane, hopefully point you towards someone wiser or better qualified who may be able to help.
Because sometimes simply hearing:
“Yep. Me too.”
can make things feel a little less lonely.
And at this point, I am about 10,000% convinced I’m heading into perimenopause as well.
Because apparently my hormones looked at PCOS and thought:
You know what this woman needs?
A fucking sequel.
Anyway…
Leg day?
DONE.
And I would just like everyone to prepare themselves for the announcement nobody thought we’d ever hear when this little adventure started:
PLANK: DONE. 
AGAIN.
Look at her go.
From avoiding that bloody thing for five straight days to apparently just casually including it in the workout now.
Character development.
I’m in bed now.
My legs have clocked out.
My arms have been defeated by a hairdryer.
My hormones are running an unsanctioned festival.
And I’m ready to call it a night.
Day 8: Done. 
Headache: rude.
Nausea: unnecessary.
Pimples: hormonally sponsored.
Coffee: WE’RE BACK, BABY.
Scale: won today’s round. Still losing the tournament. 
Legs: survived the hatchback.
Arms: defeated by a hairdryer.
Chocolate-eating career: tragically retired.
Plank: DONE. AGAIN.
Eight days in.
The scale may have tried to piss on my parade…
But tomorrow we carry on.
Progress, not perfection.
Apparently…
We’re still doing this. 
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