Ten years ago, during what I assumed would be a routine doctor’s check-up, I was hit with a blunt warning: If I didn’t change my lifestyle immediately, it might be time to write my will.

I was living with uncontrolled Type 2 Diabetes. I already had a heart stent placed in my early 30s. My weight had climbed to 140 kilos, and I was facing the harsh truth of what obesity and lifestyle-related illness could cost me.

Flights became physical marathons. I would spill over the airplane seat, making travel uncomfortable — not just for me, but my co-passenger too. Every new week brought new health complications. I was collecting them like loyalty points.

Deep down, I knew where this was headed. But denial is easy — especially when the consequences feel far away.
That conversation about my will didn’t come with dramatic music or cinematic clarity. Just a slow realization.

My health transformation started small. I began walking, cycling, and throwing in the occasional guilt-fueled gym session. There was no discipline or motivation at first — just necessity.

Five years in, I discovered the gada — a traditional Indian fitness tool. I hadn’t planned on it changing my life, but it did.
The gada workout brought me rhythm. It taught me focus, flow, and functional strength. It introduced a slow intensity that reshaped not just my body but my mind.

That slowness wasn’t just physical — it was mental too. Active meditation. Some days, it was about breathing, resisting emotional eating, or sitting calmly with uncomfortable thoughts without escaping to food, screens, or excuses.
The gada became more than a tool — it became a teacher.

It reminded me that strength can be quiet. That resilience is a rhythm, built swing by swing. That control and chaos coexist — and so does balance within discomfort.

Today, at 55, I’ve shed nearly as many kilos as years I’ve lived.
I’m not perfect. I’m still WIP. Some days flow. Some unravel.
That’s life. Messy. Beautiful. Incomplete.
What’s helped is not fighting the mess, but learning to find my balance in chaos.

I live by a Japanese philosophy tattooed on my forearm — Wabi Sabi — the idea that there is beauty in imperfection and grace in what is unfinished.

I’m not chasing perfection or performance anymore.
I’m chasing what’s real.