Note: I am in the process of archiving my writings disperced across social media platforms on my own website here. This is a mirror post of my personal essay “(cringe) processing #4: The Body Knew Before I Did“ on my Substack page (cringe) processing.

A couple months ago, I found an old notebook while cleaning my room. Flipping open this black Muji notebook, I was greeted by my childlike handwriting: “May 1, 2023: Zizi’s return to the gym,” it wrote.

In three years’ time, I had forgotten the notebook entirely. What surprised me wasn’t that I had once tracked my workouts so diligently for six months with actionable goals, regular reflections, and periodic adjustments. It was that I no longer needed to. Somewhere over the past three years, movement had quietly stopped being a project and become part of the rhythm of my life. From HIIT to yoga. From strength training to walking. From tennis to surfing. Some were one night stands while others were committed relationships. Some were in the past tense while others are still ongoing. Regardless, I can no longer envision a life without some forms of movement.

doing Z press in ‘star fish’ formation with the boys.

If you knew me from the first twenty eight years of my life, you would have known that movements and sports were nowhere near my sense of self. I was the good student turning into a promising young scholar who might as well get awarded an Oscar for playing the perfect daughter role for decades. I had never consistently sticked to any exercise routine. I had never enjoyed working out. I had nothing but traumatic experiences with movements forced upon me by authoritarian institutions and parents. So what happened three years ago continuing into the present that led me to regular movement and embracing the identity of someone who genuinely enjoys moving her body?

This turn to regular movement felt like a sudden decision. Most people would assume this change was prompted by my wedding two months away. But that thread of thought truly never entered my mind. I already bought and tailored a beautiful wedding dress that I adored and felt confident in. There was no special diet, no special beauty routine, no special exercise. In fact, it didn’t even come to my mind to do my nails until my friend took me to a nail tech literally the day before. There were simply too many much direr things that occupied my mind and my nervous system.

Back then, I attributed health (”wanting to up my health with better cardiovascular functions and strength” and “struggling to consistently move at home” as captured in the notebook) as the reasoning behind trying out small group fitness. Looking back now, I’m no longer convinced I made a rational decision to start exercising. If anything, it feels as though my body sensed something my conscious mind hadn’t yet admitted.

I was thrown into a transitional phase in life with lots of changes and unpredictability: getting married, completing my doctoral dissertation, and applying for academic jobs. All things requiring an extraordinary amount of work with no guarantee outcomes. Worst of all was the compounding amount of anxiety, stress, anger, grief, and powerlessness that my parents brought out of me. How can I survive my emotionally immature parents’ month-long visit? How can I protect my partner and his family from my parents when I can barely breathe?

Deep down, there was this part of me that anticipated the craziest pack of storms to come and another part of me that braced myself for the upcoming long battles. Those parts nudged me toward movement as a means to gain a sense of control that I longed for. If writing kept me company through pain during the turmoil of teenage years, movement helped me return to my body during a second period of turmoil. It was not any specific workout but the establishment of such a time-space for me to be grounded in my body.

Throughout the first two years of intense survival, emotional reckonings, and brutal healing processes, it was in movements that I could begin focusing on breathing and tuning into my bodily sensations. Exercising acted like moving meditation wherein I was present and one with my body and how I moved. It did not replace therapy. It did not cure me emotionally nor help me do the hard inner work. Over time, movement, along with somatic IFS therapy and massage therapy, helped ground me and become someone who could live inside my body with more ease.

Movement taught me to learn to trust myself. Looking back at three years ago gave me some perspectives on my gains and growth. I would have never imagine to be where I am at right now, whether it is strong enough to squat and deadlift above my own weight or to be at a place where I feel at peace and in alignment with myself. I am so proud of myself now.

I couldn’t have felt more proud of the younger Zizi who remained so strong despite decades of pain and had always chosen kindness and growth. No, the process has not been all cheer, but I’m amazed by how we have weathered through them all. Instead of overwhelmingly feeling sympathy or grief toward my younger self, I found myself genuinely feeling pride and admiration. So much has changed, and the twenty eight years old couldn’t have known, but all these hard works, ups and downs were worth it to get me to where I am and where I am heading toward.

I have found ways to try new activities grow out of things, and simply live and experience different movements. More than my physical growth, the past years have been pivotal to my growth as a person mentally and emotionally. As I continue to heal and live a more aligned life, this sanctuary time-space of exercise as survival has been continuously evolving and expanding into a living ecosystem that sustains and nourishes me, providing a channel to experience, practice, introspect, and grow.

Instead of writing about all the things I tried during these three years (I will save these for future posts), I’d like to turn to the basic, aka., walking.

I have always loved city walks. I remember countless times in the past eight or nine years where I would blame my lack of movement on where I live. Los Angeles is such a car-centric place with only a few pockets of interesting, walkable neighborhoods that could bring back the feeling of that summer eleven years ago in New York City, walking miles upon miles as a lifestyle byproduct. Things started to change when I stopped forcing LA to become NYC and started accepting the reality of living in a LA suburb reliant on cars with not much to look at on the streets.

Sure, I am not going to randomly stumble upon a cool thift store or a cute cafe. But who is to say I can’t romanticize about other kinds of serendipitous encounters while walking (and even jogging) around my little suburban neighborhood? I have found myself amazed by sightings of all kinds of plants, from the sprouting to the wilted, from different shades of green to the pops of bright color, from fruits hanging off overgrown trees to wild flowers blossoming through concrete cracks, from the sweet fragrant of the white magnolia to the crunchy sound of stepping on dried leaves.

There is always something new waiting to be discovered. Sometimes it’s simply how a house looks different with a unique shadow painted by the sun and the tree. Sometimes it might be me making stories up in my head about a particular house being haunted. As I have gotten more familiar with the neighborhood, I would find myself getting excited about the anticipatory possibility of chances. Would the fluffy white cat be sunbathing at their window? Will the pomegranate turn red today? What would some of my neighbors be watching on their TVs? Will I encounter any neighborhood kitties and, if so, where?

I also decided to bring my curiosity outside of my neighborhood, taking advantage of my relative proximity to the ocean with only 15-20 minutes drive to explore different parts of Redondo Beach, Hermosa Beach, and Manhattan Beach.

I cherish the multitude of sensations of walking barefoot on the sand: the scotching hot burn in mid summer days, the ice cold freeze in early winter morning, the scrapes from broken shells, and the activation of tiny little muscles. I savor the shock throughout my body when I make first contact with the freezing salt water, the calmness of breathing in rhythm with the waves crashing on the shore, and the wonder of encountering interesting shells and pebbles. Jogging at where the ocean meets the beach, I let the touch of salt water wash away my stress, the felt of the wind take away my sorrow, and the smell of the ocean recharge my soul.

The hot girl city walk opened the door for the hot girl neighborhood walk/jog, which led the way for the hot girl beach walk/jog. The chain didn’t end there. Time on the beach made me curious about the possibility of trying out sports on sand and in ocean myself. (Stay tuned for upcoming processings of my short fling with beach volleyball and my complicated relationship with surfing.) Being curious and open about movements has helped me discover what I like and dislike, and practice forming a new relationship with myself grounded in my body and somatic experiences. Eventually, movement has become a place where I could begin trusting myself again.