As I carry my 45-pound, six-year-old daughter on my shoulders up the steep hill to Montjuïc Castle in Barcelona, I breathe in and out slowly, grateful for the daily exercise discipline that keeps me fit enough for moments like this.
My legs, under the weight of my daughter, plead for respite, but they persist. My neck, strained by the burden of my precious girl, protests, yet it endures. The future discomfort is oddly more satisfying than any post-workout high could ever be.
When I was younger, I exercised because I wanted to look strong, powerful, and attractive, and, in the process, attract the ladies who would say, “Hey, look at that handsome guy.”
But now I work out every day I can, because I want and need to be robust for my daughter, so she can say: “Hey, look at my dad, he’s so strong.”
And every so often, she does say it. And that is infinitely more rewarding than any praise I could ever get from anyone else, or the glimpses of admiration, envy, or desire from others around me, and more fulfilling than the insatiable and never-ending need for loading my ego with validation.
My daughter’s words and pride fill me with a joy that surpasses any flirtatious glance I have ever received. Her belief in my strength, though I may not be as strong as she thinks, fuels my determination to climb a steep hill with her on my shoulders. The pain in my neck, lower back, and knees is a small price to pay for her happiness as she jumps and jigs with joy, pretending she is on a rollercoaster.
So when I am at the gym, I no longer look at women around me, hoping they will be impressed with my strength and appearance.
I do not care anymore.
All I think about is that each rep makes me stronger for my daughter, and that perhaps with more hard work and some luck, I will live a longer and healthier life so I can share more time with her. My long life that she needs and deserves.
Each exercise I perform is a preparation for the moments that truly matter:
Push-ups build the strength I need to lift her when she seeks a hug.
Pull-ups enable me to hold her when she needs to cry in my arms.
Abs workouts give me the agility to spring out of bed to see her beautiful face when she wakes.
Lunges and squats provide the leg power I need to crouch down to her eye level when she wants to talk or hug me, without needing to stand on her toes.
When I jog after a workout, and my brain tells me I cannot breathe anymore, or my thighs burn with pain, all I can think about is how my heart muscle is toughening, giving her more years with a father she can count on.
Cardio fills me with the stamina I need to walk fast or run to her when she needs me, no matter my age, or when she wants to play some game that involves running around, so I can match her energy — even if my knees scream “stop.”
Being resilient means a better view for her on my shoulders, letting her see the world from even higher than I do, and providing her the certainty that no matter what, she can always rely on me to carry her when she is tired, sad, or simply wants to be close.
As I approach my fifties, I cannot help but look forward to the future. I cannot imagine not being there when she graduates from high school, college, or university. I anticipate the moments when she will need me to put her own children to sleep or play with them because she is too exhausted or overwhelmed.
I am preparing myself to still be there for her, no matter what.
I need to be stronger than ever, sharper than ever, not to attract glances or please my ego, but so my daughter, the love of my life, can lean on me for as long as my body can possibly allow it, or until she decides she no longer needs me to.
That is why I exercise.
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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Photo credit: Brittani Burns on Unsplash
