MAY YOU REMEMBER WHO YOU ARE BENEATH IT ALL

Doing hard things reminds us that we are often far more capable than the mind would have us believe.

The noise, the stories, the doubts:

Why am I doing this?

I’m so busy, I don’t have time for this.

Shouldn’t I be slowing down?

Remember, you’re in menopause.

You’re not fit enough, you haven’t trained enough.

That is often the mind pulling us back to the place of least resistance. And I know it would have been easier not to sign up, especially once I decided to travel to New Zealand in late February, which would have given me the perfect get-out.

And as I write this, I can honestly say I am still buzzing from the experience.

As I was cycling out in the hum of 9,000 cyclists, with the sun coming up against a pink sky, the cool air touching my skin, and the pulse of my heart beating in my chest, I felt emotional. Tears were rolling down my cheeks.

And honestly, it made me feel so grateful. I know now that when tears move through me in that way, they are my body’s signal. Not sadness. Not overwhelm. Information. A deep knowing that I am aligned, that I am exactly where I am meant to be. I could sense it in every cell of my body.

Because there is so much that goes into committing to experiences like this. The decision. The preparation. The time it takes. The early mornings. The social sacrifices. The moments you question yourself. The showing up. The quiet promises you make to yourself along the way.

And then suddenly, the moment arrives.

You are there.

In it. Present.

Fully awake.

Emotionally, spiritually, and physically.

I was in awe that I could notice all these small things around me. The colour of the sky. The sound of the wheels. The energy of the people. The feeling of being carried by something bigger than myself.

It was such a beautiful reminder of how much there is to notice when we are fully present.

The whole experience was so much more fun than I could ever have imagined, and I think that’s because so much has changed since I last rode the 312 two years ago. Not just in how I trained, but in how I live.

I have now been alcohol-free for two years, and I have been riding consistently for the past five years. So this wasn’t just about what I did in the five weeks leading up to the ride. It was also about the quiet consistency that has been building in the background for years.

Sometimes we forget that change doesn’t always happen in one big dramatic moment. Often, it is the small decisions, repeated over time, that eventually become the foundation we get to stand on.

I also approached the ride differently this time. I trained differently.

In fact, I probably did the least amount of training on my bike because of the bad weather this year. I also travelled to New Zealand for a month, where I didn’t even think about cycling. When I returned, I only had five weeks to really dedicate to putting the miles in.

But this year, I supported my body differently. I added strength training to my fitness routine twice a week, and I can really feel the difference it has made. I felt stronger and more powerful on the bike.

Another game changer for me was creatine. I did a loading phase, taking 20g per day for a week, and the power, focus, and clarity I felt from this was next level.

I also listened more. I got lots of nutritional advice, and instead of doing some of the things, I went all in. This time, I fuelled properly, stayed on top of my hydration, and stopped expecting my body to perform without giving it what it needed.

Nutrition on the bike is a science. Carbohydrates, electrolytes, hydration, timing, it all matters. And this time, I respected that. I stopped winging it and gave my body what it needed, before it had to ask.

And of course, yoga was always there. Not just for mobility and recovery, but for the mental side too. The breath. The presence. The ability to sit with discomfort and know that it too shall pass.

Everything in life is about timing, and this was no different. Knowing when to push, when to ease, when to fuel, when to breathe, when to pause, and when to simply stay with the moment in front of me.

One climb at a time.

One peloton at a time.

One moment at a time.

And then there’s the adrenaline. That wild energy that carries you, lifts you, and somehow pushes you forward when your body is tired.

One of the best moments of the whole day was riding past my house. I mean, how magical is it that the route passes right by my home? My hubby and my daughter had gone above and beyond and set up a pit stop with dance music blaring, food and drinks flowing, and lots of friends showing up and cheering on all the riders.

I can’t tell you how much those moments matter when your body is tired and you still have 40km to go.

And then there is the pure joy of crossing the finish line. It is one of those feelings you wish you could bottle.

The relief.

The pride.

The exhaustion.

The joy.

The I actually did it.

And now, recovery is the practice because there is wisdom in how we recover too: the slowing down, the stretching, the eating well, the hydrating, the cold plunging, the resting, the sleeping, the listening.

And the big question…

Will I ride again next year?

I’ve been thinking about it…

Probably yes.

Because I know I am more accountable when I have something to work towards.

What feels different now is this: I used to be someone who pushed myself so hard because I was always trying to prove to myself, and to the world, that I was good enough.

But that’s no longer who I am.

This time, I wasn’t riding to prove anything.

I was riding because I could. Because I wanted to. Because my body is strong. Because my mind is softer. Because challenge can also be joy. Because doing hard things can remind us of the power that has been beneath it all the entire time.

And maybe that is the lesson I am taking with me.

When we stop trying so hard to prove ourselves, we often discover a quieter kind of strength. A strength that doesn’t shout. A strength that doesn’t need to be validated.

A strength that simply says:

I am here.

I am capable.

I can do hard things.

So this May, may you remember who you are beneath it all.

Beneath the doubt.

Beneath the noise.

Beneath the old stories.

Beneath the version of you who thought she had to prove her worth.

There is so much power there.

And maybe, just maybe, you don’t need to become more of anything.

Maybe you just need to remember.