“You won’t make it far.“
That line stuck with me — my supervisor pointing at a large cup of Cold Stone ice cream on my desk — a memory that resurfaced just months later as an ER nurse pushed multiple doses of painkillers into my body.
It was 2019. I had secured admits to two master’s programs — one from the University of Birmingham and the other from TU Berlin. On paper, I was set: a budding rail professional, 24-year-old engineer with options. But I was heavily overweight, carrying over 30% body fat. My body was already signaling failure. I couldn’t sit for long, bend comfortably, or move without strain.
Then came the collapse: my left arm became completely immobile — from shoulder to fingertips. Even the slightest movement triggered searing pain. I was rushed to the ER, injected three times before they could even run a scan.
Lying in that bed, the message cut through everything: professional achievements mean nothing if your body fails.
That was the call. In that ER, I decided: whatever it takes, this ends here.
Looking into Chaos, Finding Order
Those early months back were pure chaos — no structured program, no clear benchmarks, just brute force and regret. Every day was a negotiation between doubt and discipline. My body resisted; my mind searched for shortcuts. Yet something deeper formed: rhythm.
This wasn’t my first rodeo. I had been active in my teens, but complacency always crept back in — I was never consistent. This time, it was different. The fear of the ER stayed with me. Even on rest days, I showed up — not to lift, but to preserve the pattern. I wasn’t building muscle yet; I was building identity. I had broken routines before, but not this time.
Over time, order emerged — not in perfect reps, but in the act of returning. Lifting became a system: input, stress, adaptation. I was transitioning from just working out to truly training — it became preparation for life, for business, for everything ahead. Somewhere along that path, I gave up alcohol — not as a sacrifice, but as alignment. It simply didn’t belong in the system I was creating.
Mentors Found in Unlikely Places
At first, I wanted to do it all alone — raw effort, no guidance. Out of shame and self-doubt, I let go of a path that had been promised to me. A year later, a mentor stepped in — an ex-bodybuilder who seemed to see something of himself in me. I had shown up consistently, and this time, I listened. I learned that mentorship isn’t about titles; it’s about structure.
Along the way, former bodybuilders, ex-addicts, entrepreneurs, even an ex-military man who had lost his family to war — people forged more by failure than success — took me in. My problems felt small in comparison. They didn’t offer inspiration. They offered structure, feedback, and tough questions. The journey itself soon became the goal.
What I had once labeled independence was really fear of accountability. Asking for help isn’t weakness — it’s orientation. And orientation is everything.
“Leadership often hides in ordinary people living extraordinary lives.“
Leading the Path Forward
The shift was subtle: a nod from regulars, a question from a stranger, a kid asking me to spot him. I didn’t chase recognition — but two years in, it started to find me. Older lifters, younger ones, even coaches began to notice — not because of my numbers, but because of my consistency. I wasn’t the strongest in the room, but I had become someone others could turn to. Soon, people were asking for advice.
Eventually, I earned a Level 4 instructor certification — not to monetize, but to understand, to help, and to carry it forward. I realized knowledge is everything — especially when it’s quiet. I listened more than I spoke, observed patterns, questioned defaults. And when someone asked for help, I never hesitated.
Today, six years in, the chase continues. What started as survival has become technical. From paralysis in one arm to preparing for a local, drug-tested meet — aiming to cross a 500 kg total (200 kg deadlift, 130 kg bench, 170 kg squat) — the journey has come full circle. I’m nothing but grateful — for the pain, the process, and the people.
Conclusion
Everything shifted the day I couldn’t lift my arm. It forced me to confront a truth I had ignored: without physical integrity, nothing else holds. What began with pain became a system. What began with fear became structure.
I’m still learning. But I’ve come to understand this: most people are managing more than they show. Nothing should be taken personally. Clarity comes from focusing on what you can control — and resting without guilt when it’s earned.
That structure now informs how I move through everything — work, decisions, relationships. Show up. Observe. Adapt. Build.
Time is the only resource you never get back. Titles fade. Outcomes shift. What remains is your process — and what it builds over time.
Aswin Paraprath 