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Discovering the Power of Consistency
“Come on! You got this!” My coach’s voice boomed across the gym.
The weight on my shoulders felt crushing—220 lbs loaded on the barbell, my legs burning from fatigue. I had already powered through five reps, but my coach and gym buddies weren’t letting me stop.
“Three more! You can do it!”
I locked eyes with my reflection in the mirror, steadied my breath, and engaged my core. Sixth rep. Seventh rep. My legs trembled, my body screamed for relief. One more. My coach stood right behind me, ready to step in if I failed. I dipped down for the eighth rep, every muscle in my body fighting against the weight—and then I did it.
The gym erupted in cheers. People clapped me on the back, my coach grinned wider than I did. Even while writing this, I can still feel the electric rush of that moment. I had done something I never thought possible.
But as I walked home, another thought hit me like a punch to the gut.
Wasn’t I the same guy who once struggled to hold a glass of water with my shaky hands? The same guy whose mornings began with uncontrollable tremors from alcohol withdrawal?
And now? I was holding over 220 lbs.
This was the power of consistency. Not a one-day victory, not a sudden transformation. Months of effort, showing up daily, building strength rep by rep. That’s what got me here.
The Inconsistent Me
For over twenty years, alcohol owned me—fifteen of them drowning me in a bottle-a-day haze, blurring the edges of my days, my dreams, my very existence. I mastered delay, becoming a prisoner of fear. Empty promises formed a fragile chain. Chasing quick fixes—reckless investments, shortcuts to success—I watched my life crumble under debt and despair. Rock bottom hit with a resounding echo. In the depths of that silence, I planned my escape—not forward, but out.
My wife had other plans. She dragged me to rehab, not as a hero’s rescue but as a desperate act of defiance against my self-destruction. It wasn’t a fairy-tale fix. Rehab stopped me from falling further, but it didn’t teach me how to rise. Relapse proved that. But one lesson clawed its way into my mind and stayed there: just show up. Not for the grand transformations, not for overnight redemption, but for the small, unremarkable steps that quietly lead to change. That’s the power of consistency.
My past wasn’t always like this. I had started the gym before—more than once. Running, yoga, prayers, even attempts at learning new languages had all been taken up. But consistency was never my companion. Each effort flickered out like a candle in the wind, snuffed by boredom, doubt, or the sheer discomfort of effort. I never stayed long enough for the struggle to turn into strength. I talked about these struggles in detail in my blog, Character Flaws: A Road to Redemption.
Why I Was Inconsistent
Perfectionism was one of the biggest reasons behind my inconsistency. Whenever I started something new, I wouldn’t just ease into it—I’d dive headfirst into how the best in that field did it. I’m not saying that’s wrong. In fact, most of us, including me, draw inspiration from others before stepping onto a new path. But expecting mastery in a short span is a dangerous illusion.
I wanted to run like Eliud Kipchoge after just a week of jogging. Instead of celebrating progress, I fixated on my imperfections. The pattern repeated in everything I tried. At the gym, I’d watch men who had been lifting for ten years execute flawless form while I struggled to maintain proper posture. Instead of acknowledging the years of effort they had put in, I cursed myself for not being perfect immediately. Discouragement would creep in, and soon enough, I would quit.
I was also an instant-gratification seeker, always chasing quick fixes. Dreams of quick money, rapid success, and immediate results consumed me. Yet, I knew—because I had read it countless times—that great things take time. Yet, I never lived by that truth. I wanted six-pack abs and threw myself into crunches, planks, and Russian twists with relentless intensity. But after a few weeks, when I didn’t see results, I felt demoralized and gave up, despite knowing it would take months.
The same impatience bled into my financial decisions. I dabbled in the stock market, buying shares and expecting quick returns. If the stock didn’t move fast enough, I’d sell in frustration—often at a loss—only to chase another promising stock, repeating the cycle. I never focused on steady progress; I was obsessed with instant results.
I had read the famous saying, “Success is 99% perspiration and 1% inspiration.” But I lived in reverse—I depended entirely on motivation. I’d devour motivational articles to push myself to run or hit the gym. But motivation, like a sugar rush, fades. It can fuel you on difficult days, but it’s not a sustainable driving force. With repetition, the same words lost their spark, and I found myself quitting once again.
My Journey With Consistency
When I staggered out of rehab, I wasn’t reborn—just a shell of a man, hands still trembling from the ghosts of withdrawal. My wife’s fierce resolve and my mother’s gentle nudging shoved me toward something new: a walk around the block, a shaky prayer whispered in the dark, a single squat that left me gasping. I didn’t see it then, but those frail steps were the roots of consistency digging into the wreckage of my life. I was the guy who once planned his own exit, convinced the bottle had won, yet here I was, showing up when every fiber of me wanted to hide. Why did I shift? Grit grew from rock bottom, a stubborn spark to prove I wasn’t done, fueled by a purpose to share my mess.
The milestones crept up slowly, each one a quiet rebellion against my past. At the gym, I started with bodyweight squats, legs buckling under me like a newborn foal, but I kept going—day after day, adding weight until I stood under 220 lbs, squatting it eight times as my coach bellowed encouragement. Running was the same: five minutes of wheezing stretched into 30 minutes of steady strides, my lungs reclaiming what alcohol had stolen. Writing became my confession—14 blogs spilled from my fingers, raw and real, with no paycheck to chase, just a need to prove I could finish something. Debt still gnaws at me, and I relapsed once, but I didn’t stay down. That’s the shift: consistency turned into my lifeline, not an option—that’s the power of consistency.
It’s not a fairy tale—I’m still in the thick of it. My wife’s love, my mother’s faith, they’re my anchors when doubt creeps in. The gym, yoga, prayer—they’re my rhythm, steadying a mind that once spun in chaos. I’ve found grit I didn’t know I had, a purpose in sharing my mess, and a brain rewired by repetition. Some mornings, fear of creditors tightens my chest, but I lace up my shoes, open my laptop, and keep going. Consistency isn’t a cure; it’s a stubborn promise to myself—one I’ve kept, rep by rep, word by word. That’s the power of consistency at work.
The Power of Just Showing Up
The power of consistency was truly revealed in that gym moment—220 lbs pressing down, my legs screaming, the room erupting as I hit that eighth rep—wasn’t about the weight. It was the months of showing up, the mornings I dragged myself out of bed when despair whispered to stay put. I used to think change demanded grand gestures, a lightning bolt of transformation. But I was wrong. The real power was in the quiet act of being there—day after day, stacking small wins until they towered over the guy who once shook so badly he spilled his water. It’s not glamorous; it’s gritty, unglorious magic.
Back when alcohol owned me, showing up wasn’t in my vocabulary. I’d start things—gym, running, even dreams of quick riches—but they’d fizzle out, snuffed by impatience or fear. I wrote about that phase in Hitting Rock Bottom: My Battle with Alcohol, Debt, and Self-Destruction.
Now, I see it differently. Every blog post I write, every half-hour run, every yoga pose I hold—it’s not about the act itself, but the refusal to skip it. That day in the gym, my coach’s voice, my buddies’ cheers, they were just echoes of my own stubbornness. I’d shown up enough times that failure wasn’t an option. It’s a strange power, how presence alone can rebuild a life from ash—it’s the power of consistency..
This isn’t about perfection. Some days, I’m slow, my squats wobble, my words stumble. Debt still looms, and I doubt “Reboot At 40” will ever pay off. But showing up carries me through. It’s the thread that stitched me back together—trembling hands to steady ones, a blurred existence to a clear path. It’s not loud or fast; it’s a slow burn, a promise kept in the mundane. That’s the magic: you don’t need to be strong to start, just stubborn enough to not stop.
How to Stay Consistent
Consistency didn’t come naturally—I had to claw my way to it. In the haze of post-rehab, I was a mess, but my wife’s intervention and my mother’s prayers gave me a lifeline I couldn’t ignore. They didn’t let me wallow; they pushed me to show up, even when I felt like a fraud. I leaned on simple routines—gym sessions, yoga flows, quiet prayers—because they were things I could grip when everything else slipped. Perfection taunted me, whispering I’d never measure up, but I learned to shove it aside. It’s not about flawless days; it’s about stringing enough of them together to build something real.
The power of consistency became clear when relapse taught me forgiveness is key. I fell back into the bottle once, and it stung—years of chaos flashing before me—but I climbed out again. Tracking my steps kept me honest: I log every workout, every blog, watching the numbers grow like proof I’m not that guy anymore. Debt still shadows me, and fear of failure gnaws, but I’ve found ways to outlast them. It’s momentum, not miracles—small acts piling up until they’re a fortress. My coach’s voice still rings in my ears from that 220-lb day: “You got this!”—and I hold onto that when I waver.
Here’s how you can stay consistent, straight from my messy playbook:
- Lean on someone: Find a wife, a friend, a coach—anyone who won’t let you quit. My wife and mother were mine.
- Pick one thing: Start with something doable—ten squats, a five-minute walk. I chose the gym because it was there.
- Track it: Write it down—every rep, every step. Seeing “14 blogs” on paper keeps me going.
- Ditch perfect: Wobbly squats still count. Don’t wait for mastery; just move.
- Forgive fast: Slip up? I did. Get back tomorrow—no guilt, just grit.
Choose what fits you—start where you stand, and build from there.
Lessons Learnt From Months of Consistency
The power of consistency has carved lessons into me, raw and unpolished. Progress is a slog—220 lbs didn’t land on my shoulders overnight; it was months of grinding, sweat dripping, legs shaking. I used to chase quick fixes, dreaming of instant abs or stock market windfalls, but consistency taught me great things crawl, not sprint. Discomfort’s a teacher, too—those burning reps, the ache of facing another blank page—they’re where strength hides. I’d rather skip it some days, but pushing through showed me I’m built for more than I thought.
Purpose outlasts motivation, and that’s a hard-won truth. I used to rely on motivational highs—articles, quotes, that fleeting rush—but they fade fast. Writing blogs isn’t about a buzz; it’s about spilling my guts so someone else might dodge my pitfalls. Habits stack, too—gym led to yoga, yoga to prayer, each one locking the others in place. It’s like a chain I forged, link by link, until breaking it felt harder than keeping it. Debt still looms, a mountain I haven’t climbed, but consistency whispers I’ll outlast it, one steady step at a time.
The biggest lesson? I’m tougher than I knew. I was the guy who planned his own end, who shook from withdrawal, who lost everything to a bottle. Now, I run 30 minutes, write without reward, face creditors with a knot in my gut but my head up. Consistency peeled back the layers—fear’s still there, doubt’s a shadow, but beneath it, I found grit. It’s not about winning; it’s about enduring. These months taught me I can carry more than weight—I can carry myself.
Start Small; Just Show Up
The power of consistency was my guide, though I didn’t start big—couldn’t have. Post-rehab, I was a wreck, hands trembling, hope thin. My wife dragged me to a walk, not a marathon; my mother suggested a prayer, not a sermon. I did one squat, not a set, because that’s all I had. Big dreams taunted me—run like Kipchoge, lift like a pro—but I’d crash chasing them. Small was my savior: five minutes of wheezing became 30, and a single blog turned into 14. You don’t need a grand plan—just a stubborn toe over the line, every damn day.
Perfection nearly killed this before it started. I’d watch gym vets with flawless form and curse my wobbly stance, forgetting their decade of reps. I’d write a blog and trash it, thinking it wasn’t profound enough. But consistency doesn’t care about perfection—it thrives on messy starts. One squat, one sentence, one breath—they stack up. I couldn’t lift 220 lbs that first week, but I showed up anyway. The finish line’s a mirage; today’s the only thing that’s real. Focus there, and the rest creeps closer.
If you’re struggling to start, remember you don’t need an expensive gym membership or fancy equipment. Even simple tools like a set of resistance bands or a yoga mat can help you build the habit from home.
The power of consistency is what you need, not strength to begin—just defiance. I was the guy who shook, who hid, who quit everything once. Now, I lace up my shoes when I’d rather sleep, type when my mind’s blank, and push when I’m tired. Start where you are: a push-up, a note, a moment of quiet. My hands steadied, my life rebuilt, not by talent but by showing up. It’s not about what you lift—it’s about what you won’t drop. Take that first step, small as it is, and keep coming back. The magic’s in the return.