Home from football, walked in on my wife going through a Mike Dolce video. If you don’t know him, you should. He has a couple cookbooks and won personal trainer (or maybe just trainer?) of the year award, trains ufc athletes. So I’m watching and smiling... and I started to flash back to when I wanted to be that guy on the tv. I sat down and loved his enthusiasm and remembered to when I would copy him and study how he taught because I wanted that. I wanted that enthusiasm and charisma, I wanted people to love the classes and get results.
And eventually walked out and started to cry. Because it finally hit me, that I quit. I quit because my mother was diagnosed w a cancer that I felt I could’ve helped her prevent and I didn’t. I didn’t help her. I tried, and it just didn’t work. And when that happened, I left. I lied and tried to say I didn’t, that it was fine, everything is fine, but I wasn’t really there.
I can’t find a way to not hold myself partially responsible. The mention of her or “hospice,” and watch me try my best poker face, which usually ends w welling eyes.... don’t blink.
And eventually walked out and started to cry. Because it finally hit me, that I quit. I quit because my mother was diagnosed w a cancer that I felt I could’ve helped her prevent and I didn’t. I didn’t help her. I tried, and it just didn’t work. And when that happened, I left. I lied and tried to say I didn’t, that it was fine, everything is fine, but I wasn’t really there.
Gone.
