The Fire Sticker

Today I completed my 40th Rumble class.

I’m also in the middle of a Rumble challenge, and after one more class, I’ll earn my 10th little fire sticker.

Every time before class, I proudly walk up to the front desk and ask for my sticker like a little kid waiting for a gold star in elementary school.

And honestly? I love it.

Because that tiny little sticker represents so much more than another workout.

It represents showing up.

It represents rebuilding.

It represents choosing to believe my body is capable, even on the days my mind tries to convince me otherwise.

Lately, though, I’ve noticed something.

The mental chatter has been getting louder.

I’ve never been someone who has obsessed over numbers. In fact, until a few years ago, we didn’t even own a scale. I judged my health by how my clothes fit, how strong I felt, and how much energy I had.

Somewhere along the way, that shifted.

Now I catch myself counting everything.

Forty classes.

Ten fire stickers.

Months since my double mastectomy.

Months since reconstruction.

The number of pounds.

The amount of protein.

The number of naps.

It’s as if my brain is constantly looking for proof that I’m making progress.

Ironically, I’m usually the one helping my coaching clients reframe their thoughts and celebrate how far they’ve come, rather than focusing on what’s still missing.

Yet lately, I’ve been the one staring at what’s missing.

My belly has been my nemesis for years—not just how it looks, but how it feels. The bloating. The digestion. The unpredictability. Add in perimenopause and medication side effects, and there are days when it feels even more out of my control.

I look in the mirror and wonder why my body doesn’t seem to reflect all the work I’ve been putting in.

But then class starts.

And a different conversation begins.

Some of the mental chatter is encouraging.

“Can I lift the heavier weight?”

“Can I push a little harder?”

“You’ve got this.”

“You’re not going to hurt yourself.”

“If it feels like too much, you can always grab the lighter weight.”

Other days, the chatter sounds different.

I catch myself looking around the room.

She seems to have more energy.

He’s hitting harder.

She’s moving faster.

They’re lifting heavier.

For a split second, I wonder why my body can’t do that.

Comparison really is the thief of joy.

I know I have no idea where anyone else’s journey began. They probably don’t know mine either. They don’t know what my body has been through this past year, just like I don’t know what battles they walked into class carrying.

Then my alarm becomes my wake-up call.

Every morning, it goes off before class.

I don’t spring out of bed.

I don’t wake up feeling like the Energizer Bunny ready to take on the day.

I make a commitment to myself.

I get up.

I get dressed.

I lace up my sneakers.

I show up.

Some mornings, that is the victory.

The truth is, I do wish I had more energy.

But maybe I also need to acknowledge my reality.

I’m 49 years old.

I’m raising two teenagers.

I’m building a business.

I went through breast cancer last year.

My body is still healing in ways people can’t see.

Sometimes we spend so much time wishing for a different body, more energy, or a different chapter that we forget to acknowledge the one we’re actually living.

For so long, my body felt like something that happened to me.

Now I’m slowly realizing there are things that are actually within my control.

I can move my body.

I can prioritize sleep.

I can drink more water.

I can work on eating enough protein.

I can choose not to overschedule myself.

I can listen to my body when it needs a nap instead of pushing through because I think I “should.”

The exhaustion is still there on some days.

Perimenopause doesn’t magically disappear.

Digestive issues don’t vanish overnight.

But neither does progress.

A year ago, I wasn’t wondering if I’d earn a fire sticker.

I was wondering if I’d ever consistently work out again.

Counting the days until I was medically cleared after my mastectomy to move again.

So, now, forty classes later, maybe the biggest transformation isn’t the one I see in the mirror.

Maybe it’s becoming the woman who sets her alarm even when she’s tired.

Who gets out of bed anyway.

Who trusts her body enough to lift a little heavier.

Who quiets the mental chatter one class at a time.

Who keeps showing up.

So yes…I’ll proudly collect that 10th fire sticker.

Not because I need another gold star.

But because it reminds me that sometimes the smallest things represent the biggest victories.

P.S. Dear Body…

I’m sorry for all the times I’ve measured you by what you looked like instead of what you’ve carried me through.

I’m sorry for comparing you to bodies with different stories.

Thank you for getting me through breast cancer.

Thank you for healing.

Thank you for 40 Rumble classes.

Thank you for every punch, every squat, every heavier weight I once thought I couldn’t lift.

We’re still rebuilding.

And this time, I want to spend less time fighting you…

…and more time fighting for you.