Strength Training, or: How Weakness Feels Before It Feels Like Progress

Well hell. Strength training has officially begun.

Throughout my recovery, one thing has become painfully clear: my muscle deteriorated. Badly. Not slowly. Not subtly. Just… gone. Between shattered bones, wrecked ligaments, torn soft tissue, and a nervous system that took a hit, whatever muscle survived the crash started disappearing almost immediately.

Three and a half months later, I could barely manage rubber band exercises with my occupational therapist. Moving my left wrist or my right shoulder left me sore as fuck. Not “I worked out” sore, but how is this even possible sore.

I had a pair of eight-pound dumbbells sitting around, so I started using them here and there. Nothing structured. No plan. No routine. Just: if I walked past them and felt like I could handle a little bit, I’d do a few reps. That, plus the rubber bands from OT and PT, was it for a while.

But I knew better. I’ve been here before.

After my cardiac arrests in 2022, it took a long time to rebuild my strength. Real strength. And I knew this recovery would demand the same thing—only slower, and with more humility.

So I set up a bench in my living room. Ordered a full dumbbell set to complement what I already had. Carved out space where my “dining room” used to be, a small table and stool I never actually use. Last night, my living room became a gym.

And holy fucking hell, am I weak.

I did a full workout with ten-pound dumbbells and they damn near killed me. I tried a couple things with fifteens and quickly learned that was wishful thinking. Kettlebells? Absolutely not. Not yet.

But this morning, I’m sitting here smiling in the dark. Smiling at the soreness.

Yeah, it’s small weight. But it felt good. And more importantly, it felt honest. This is where I am. This is the starting line. And I know, I know, that the strength will come back.

This time next year, I’ll be a whole new Kate.

Which makes me wonder why the hell this is never part of the conversation in the lawyer games between insurance companies and ambulance chasers. The immediate loss of strength. The months it takes to rebuild it. The physical reality of going from capable to fragile and clawing your way back. That should be listed in damages. It never is. But it fucking should be.

Of course, I’m sure some insurance lawyer would argue that I actually gained strength when you factor in the emotional journey, and that therefore I owe them. Fucking lawyers.

But this isn’t about them.

This is about me. And the leg of the journey I’m on right now is strength, building it, earning it back, rep by rep, day by day.

So that’s exactly what I’m going to fucking do.