Diabetes and Me: 'I had to prioritise myself and my health'

I cried at the gym yesterday.

I walked into the bathrooms, put down my emotional support water bottle, and burst into tears.

I looked at myself in the mirror, snapped a selfie, and smiled. I wasn't crying for the reason you might think - I was crying because I was proud of myself.

When I started going to the gym a year ago, I had vague, amorphous goals. I wanted to get better at downward dog, to find it comfortable to sit cross-legged on the floor. The unspoken but real reason was that I just wanted to feel less shit.

I had started making a weird noise when I stood up, and people would say "haha, ageing is great!" and I would think to myself "I don't think I am that old".

It's now a year since I started working out. I've missed a few sessions, through sickness, Covid-19, holidays, or period pain, but I've been consistently turning up for 52 weeks.

Downward dog is pretty easy now. I still have some hip mobility to work on, but let's call sitting cross-legged on the floor done too. I definitely feel less shit. So ... those goals?

Last night, I deadlifted 80 kilograms. This isn't huge - the world record for a woman is 288kg - but it is huge for me. It's huge for a person who 12 months ago had never done a deadlift. It's a lot of weight. It's a whole person.

I was proud of myself not just because I did the lift, but because I even tried. I had a bunch of reasons not to: I only hit 70kgs last week; my trainer wasn't there; I was tired, and I hadn't eaten much. But I was determined. I wanted to prove to myself I could get that lift.

Deadlifts are a cool lift. They use most of your muscles, but especially your core and lower body. They help with things like carrying your groceries or picking up a heavy suitcase off the baggage carousel. They help with grip strength - something else that fails with age and is also correlated with Type 2 Diabetes.

One of my delightful colleagues has lifting goals based on the average size of various dog breeds. According to that scale, I can now lift a great Dane. Another 10kg more, and I will be able to lift an English mastiff. This, it turns out, is excellent motivation to lift heavier.

Feeling like I am succeeding at deadlifts makes me feel strong. I am proud of the progress I have made in the past year. The person I was a year ago could not have imagined where I would be now. I think that's worth celebrating, even if it feels very strange to do. When I finished that lift, I made some of my gym's other trainers - people of whom I was very intimidated until not long ago - high five me.

I have new goals now. I reckon I can probably double that deadlift, for a start. And I am pretty sure I wouldn't be here if it weren't for the diabetes.

Going to the gym got me to the doctor to find out why I didn't feel better. Getting the diagnosis forced me to think about what caring for my body meant.

I thought, on my journey of body positivity, that I had reached body neutrality. That I neither loved nor hated my body - I accepted it for what it was and treated it well regardless. I deserved love and respect no matter what it looked like or how healthy it was.

It turns out, I wasn't caring for it. Like an ex in the street, I was ghosting my body, pretending it didn't exist. I turned away from it, imagining that if I just ignored it, it would go away, or at least, my feelings about it would. That might be true of lovers, but it isn't true of bodies. You can cross Queen Street to avoid that toxic person from your past, but your body is always with you.

Read more:

• Diabetes and Me: The dangers of disordered eating
• Diabetes and Me: Never forget - you've got to still enjoy life
• Diabetes and Me: Getting creative with food
• Diabetes and Me: Getting Covid
• Diabetes and Me: Finding strength through failure

Since I've been writing this column, lots of people have told me they know this feeling. Heaps of people have said "I get this tingling in my feet" or "my doctor said I should have a blood test." It's a deeply relatable thing. Health stuff is scary, doctors aren't always that sympathetic, and shame and stigma is pervasive.

I am not grateful for the diabetes. I still wish it hadn't happened. But eight months in, I am well on the track to reversing it. After the initial panic, I've learned to (mostly) live with it, and it has made me, literally, stronger. I am on better terms with my body now, if not my exes.

If I had never picked up a dumbbell, I'd be a year behind where I am now. And if I had never taken that blood test, I might not have been motivated to stick with it. But getting this condition meant that I had to prioritise myself and my health.

That might be worth celebrating too.