This morning, I was halfway through my second set of deadlifts when I heard Elizabeth cry through the baby monitor. It was 5:17 a.m. The bar was loaded. My rest timer had just started. And for a split second — maybe less — I had to decide: finish the set, or go.

I went.

By the time I got to her room, she’d already settled. False alarm. I stood there in the dark, her tiny chest rising and falling in the glow of the nightlight, and I realized something I’ve been avoiding for weeks: I’m not training the same way I used to. And I don’t think I’m supposed to.

For years, my training was mine. It was the one part of the day I controlled completely. I’d wake up before the sun, follow the program, hit the numbers, and start the day with something finished. Something I could point to and say, I did that. It was discipline. It was identity. It was sacred.

And then Elizabeth came.

I’m not complaining. I’m grateful — more than I know how to say. But the rhythm I built my mornings around doesn’t fit anymore. Cecelia’s up earlier now. Elizabeth’s feeding schedule is unpredictable. Jenn’s carrying more than I can see. And the 90-minute training block I used to protect like it was written in stone? It’s gone. Most days, I get 40 minutes. Some days, 20. Some days, none.

At first, I fought it. I’d try to squeeze in the full session, rushing through sets, cutting rest times, training angry because I couldn’t finish what I started. I told myself I was being disciplined. But really, I was just being stubborn.

This morning, standing in Elizabeth’s room, I finally asked myself the question I should’ve asked weeks ago: What is this actually for?

I train because I want to be strong. Not strong for a meet or a number on a bar — strong for the long haul. Strong enough to carry Cecelia on my shoulders when she’s tired. Strong enough to keep up with both girls when they’re running in opposite directions at the park. Strong enough to be present, not sidelined, when they’re teenagers and I’m in my fifties.

And if that’s true — if longevity is the goal — then the program doesn’t matter as much as I thought it did. The protocol doesn’t matter. The specific rep scheme doesn’t matter. What matters is that I show up, do something hard, and don’t let resentment creep in when I have to cut it short.

So I’ve been adjusting. Some mornings, I get the full session. Most mornings, I don’t. And I’m learning to be okay with that. I’m learning that 20 good minutes is better than 60 rushed ones. I’m learning that discipline isn’t just showing up when it’s easy — it’s showing up when the conditions aren’t perfect and doing the work anyway, even if it’s not the work you planned.

I think this is one of those seasons where God’s teaching me something I don’t want to learn: that control is an illusion, and flexibility is a strength I haven’t trained enough. That the best thing I can do for my family isn’t to protect my routine at all costs — it’s to build a version of myself that can adapt without losing the plot.

Elizabeth’s still asleep. Cecelia will be up soon. The bar’s still loaded in the garage. And I’ve got maybe 15 minutes before the day really starts.

That’ll be enough.

Your neighbor,
Rick