Reset: The Workout That Almost Wasn’t
Real strength isn’t always loud. Sometimes it sounds like “Great job, buddy.”
It was one of those mornings where everything creaked before I even stood up.
No spring in the step. Just a slow negotiation with gravity.
My two 10-year-olds were expecting a 6:00 AM workout.
I know this because I confirmed it with them last night — right around the time I was secretly hoping they’d forget.
The internal ping-pong match started immediately:
Sleep in. Show up. Skip it. Keep your word.
My mind was on overdrive, but my body hadn’t left the starting line.
The garage gym waited.
So did the soreness from yesterday’s squats.
And the script in my head got louder:
“You’re tired.”
“You’ve earned a break.”
“Maybe tomorrow.”
But then came the quieter voice — the one that usually sounds like a mix of God and my better self.
It didn’t bark, “Get after it.”
It didn’t shame me with, “You’re being soft.”
It whispered, “Just start.”
So I did.
I rolled out of bed.
Poked the boys awake.
Opened the garage.
The cold hit fast.
So did their groans — and their smiles.
One’s training for football.
The other for soccer.
They both want time with their dad — and maybe, just maybe, to outdo each other.
They grab a kettlebell and start pushing through the first set, sneaking glances at each other’s reps and weight.
I watch it unfold: the subtle competition, the edge of ego, the quiet craving to be seen.
I step in — not as drill sergeant, but as dad-coach.
“Listen to your body, not your brother.”
“Form before ego.”
“Effort over winning.”
Meanwhile, I’m trying to get a decent workout in myself.
But honestly? It’s not happening.
Halfway through the first superset, I call an audible.
I shift my role — from athlete to guide.
I’m still moving, but it’s more about correcting form than chasing a PR.
At first, I feel the failure rising.
The inner critic starts in:
“You’re bailing again.”
“You never follow through.”
“You’re soft for quitting early.”
I find myself staring off into space mid-set, throwing internal jabs like a boxer shadowboxing shame.
But then something shifts.
Instead of beating myself up, I start cheering them on.
And the noise in my head starts to go quiet.
“That was a great rep. See if you can do two more.”
“Good form — try pausing at the bottom.”
“You crushed 10 pounds last time. Want to try 15?”
I’m praising their effort.
Balancing affirmation with challenge.
Watching them grow right in front of me.
And it hits me —
What if I did that for myself?
What if — when the liar in me says, “You should quit” — I spoke truth back instead?
“You showed up.”
“You pivoted with purpose.”
“You’re still here.”
That shift changed everything.
I stopped counting my own reps.
I started spotting theirs.
Correcting form.
Calling out effort.
Noticing when enough was enough.
And strangely… it filled me up more than the imaginary checkbox I wanted for completing my workout.
Not because I crushed a PR.
But because I got to be with them.
Teach them.
See them.
Fill their cup.
Ten minutes in, they’re breathing hard.
Fifteen in, they’re smiling.
Thirty in, we’re all proud.
Not because the numbers were big.
But because we showed up — together.
There’s something powerful about starting your day with a promise kept:
To your kids.
To your body.
To your presence.
And maybe that’s what discipline really is:
Choosing presence over perfection.
Letting the reps become relationship.
Being fully there — even when your legs are toast and the squat rack looks like a torture device.
Scripture to Anchor the Reset
After the workout, while the boys were high-fiving and heading inside, I stood in the cold garage for a minute longer.
Not stretching. Not lifting.
Just breathing.
When moments like this happen — when the noise quiets, and the shame loses its grip — I try to pause.
Five minutes.
To reflect.
To reset.
Sometimes that looks like journaling. Sometimes it’s breathwork or prayer.
Other times, I open up the Bible app…
Or, if I’m honest, I ask my short-order guide (ChatGPT) to help me find a verse that speaks to what I’m learning.
This one rose to the top — not as a guilt trip, but as a reminder of why I keep showing up:
“But I discipline my body and keep it under control, lest after preaching to others I myself should be disqualified.”
— 1 Corinthians 9:27
Paul wasn’t talking about pushups and PRs.
He was talking about alignment. Integrity.
The kind of discipline that bridges what we say matters and how we actually live — especially when no one’s watching…
Except two 10-year-olds in hoodies, watching their dad limp toward the finish line with a smile.
I have to keep reminding myself, constantly, it’s not about perfection.
It’s about presence with purpose.
And returning to the things that ground reset me— again and again — even when it’s hard.
Key Takeaway
I used to think strength was only in the grind — the early alarm, the finished set, the clean meal. It is there for sure, but I’m starting to see it in other places now:
In the morning groans that turn into smiles.
In the ego that takes a backseat to form.
In the father who trades his reps for his kids’.
That kind of strength?
It doesn’t show up on the leaderboard.
But it shows up where it matters.
And it lasts a whole lot longer than soreness.
Real strength shows up in quiet places.
If that resonates, you’ll want to stick around. Subscribe below for more stories, resets, and fieldwork built for dads like us.