Today’s session: The “XX” in my plan means double intensity. No rest between supersets.

At exactly , I set the dumbbells down. Silence. Then a single clap—my own. I stop the recording.

Between sets, I sip black coffee from a thermos. No sugar. No excuses.

Finisher: farmer’s walk. 120 lbs per hand. Across the gym floor and back. My traps scream. My fingers uncurl like dying spiders. But I don’t drop the weights. I can’t . That’s the rule. Drop the weight, drop the identity.

Next: Bulgarian split squats. Right leg only. My left knee is the traitor—tore my meniscus two years ago. The doctor said “low impact.” I said “watch me.” I add a 40-pound dumbbell in each hand. The burn starts in my glute, travels up my spine, and settles behind my eyes. This is the part they don’t show on Instagram. The face. The grunt. The micro-tears.