Ten years is a long time. Long enough to forget what it felt like to train seriously, and long enough to romanticise it.
When I came back I expected to feel immediately at home. Instead I felt like a tourist in my own body — the habits were gone, the baseline was gone, and the mental model I had for how training worked was out of date.
What I changed
The biggest shift was dropping the idea that more is better. When I trained at 18 I could absorb a lot of volume. At 34, I can’t — or at least not without consequences I didn’t used to have to manage.
I started with three sessions a week. Not because that’s optimal, but because it’s a number I can sustain without negotiating with myself every Sunday night.
What I kept
Structure. I’ve always responded well to a plan, even a loose one. Knowing what I’m doing before I walk into a session removes a decision at the worst possible moment.
The thing I’m actively trying to avoid
Burnout. Last time I stopped, it was because training had become another obligation — something I was doing to tick a box rather than because it was doing something for me.
The early signal for that is resentment. If I start dreading sessions, something needs to change — the load, the schedule, the goal. Not the habit.