Why letting go of youth is harder than I thought

Not because of the age cap on Contiki tours

I turned 41 a few weeks ago.

Growing older was never something I was afraid of.

I used to say, “we’re lucky if we get the chance to.”

But if I’m being honest, there is a part of me that is starting to feel unsettled about ageing.

And that’s the part that is afraid of losing the physical appearance that’s been a huge part of my identity.

I was a skinny kid teased for not being the “sporty type”. I remember thinking, “If I was bigger, and stronger, people would like me more.”

So once I left school I started lifting weights. The gym quickly became my domain. A place I loved. A place where I felt a sense of strength and capability.

But also, I got jacked.

20 years later, it still brings me a sense of joy. It’s a big part of my life but,

My identity remains tangled in the superficial aspects of fitness.

Appearance matters in our society. For a long time, women bore the brunt of this pressure, but men are increasingly feeling it too.

The desired standard of male bodies has grown increasingly muscular over the past few decades — just look at the shift in male heroes.

In the 70s, you had Luke Skywalker and Han Solo — regular guys with regular builds. Now? It’s Thor and Captain America.

And for gay men, this pressure is amplified.

Social media and gay spaces are filled with ripped guys, reinforcing the same ideal: height, muscle, youth.

Living in a culture that prizes a specific look, it was hard not to internalise that thinking. Somewhere along the line, society’s ideals subtly became my own.

I really bought into it. More than I’d like to admit. When I started noticing the way people responded to my appearance, my ego identified it as a marker of success. Pretty soon, my self-worth was tied to my physical condition.

In my 20s, I was dead set on bulking up. And I did. I went from 44 kg to 90 kg in a few years. When people asked me if I was taking steroids, I’d feel flattered.

But the journey was intense.

The OG Rodent Man was me at 20 years old

I ate so much pasta and bread that I remain intolerant to wheat. When it was time to shred, I’d eat steamed fish for breakfast… in my open-plan office.

If someone called me “skinny” instead of “lean” I’d obsess over it for days. All this time and energy — hours, years — spent chasing an idea of perfection.

Looking back, I can see how much mental space this took up. If I travelled for work, I’d stress over finding somewhere to train and maintaining my diet. If I missed a training day, I’d feel guilty, like I’d wasted time.

I was so obsessed with my appearance that it was causing me angst. The pursuit of the “perfect” body took over, and it left little room for anything else.

At the time, I didn’t understand there was anything wrong. There weren’t any alarm bells. I was keeping fit and healthy.

I had no idea what muscle dysmorphia was, but knowing now I can draw some parallels.

Dr Scott Griffiths, an expert in male body image issues, says that the line between being “super into the gym” and having muscle dysmorphia is preoccupation and impairment.

Meaning, if the gym or dem sick gainz consumes you to the point that your work, relationships or mental health is suffering, there is an issue. 

I wish there was some sage wisdom I could share about how I shifted out of that phase.

But really, for me, it was just time and maturity.  

As time went by, I started to relax about my militant regime. I grew bored of meal prep, enjoyed the odd rest day, and became more comfortable in my own skin. 

I’ve also started to diversify my interests.

Sure, I still post shirtless pics, but I also enjoy writing, performing comedy, and learning Spanish. Things that don’t rely solely on looks. 

This feels muy targeto

But even as I’ve expanded the things that give me meaning, training and its results, still matter a lot. There’s an undeniable sense of accomplishment that comes with it.

But there’s a trap here too — the tyranny of progress.

I get caught in my own narrative that I always need to be progressing.

Set a body goal. Work towards the goal. Hit the goal. Set another goal.

Put on muscle. Shred for summer. Have a six pack.

But how much longer can I keep doing this and winning?

Herein lies the truth I keep bumping against:

No amount of training will stop the natural process of ageing.

There’s going to come a day when my tried-and-tested routines for building muscle definition just won’t work anymore.

It might not be tomorrow, or next week or next birthday, but it will happen.

When it does, I’ll have a choice to make.

I could twist myself in knots, trying to hold onto something I can’t hold onto forever, or I could consciously choose to accept it.

How do I do that? Well, I’m still figuring that out. 

Writing about it feels like a start. Being honest with myself about how I’m feeling.

Shifting my focus from what I’m losing to what I still have, or what else I have to gain, might be another step.

Instead of stressing about not hitting PBs, I can be grateful that I can stay fit – even if that means…. becoming a cyclist.

I know it won’t be easy – I’ve spent years defining myself as strong.

But I’ve realised that strength isn’t just physical. 

Strength is resilience and knowing when to let go.

That was either Buddha, or Sheryl Sandberg who said that.

Sure, there will be moments when I suffer pangs of anxiety over losing something so hard-fought and intertwined with who I am.

But just like when I first stepped into the gym, building inner strength is going to be a slow, deliberate process. 

Back then, I didn’t expect to lift heavy right away; I took my time, focused on the basics, and gradually built my strength with each workout. It took practice, patience, and consistency. 

Letting go of this attachment to appearance is going to require the same kind of effort. 

I’ll need to practice, show up for myself, and put in the work day-by-day. 

And in that process, I intend to find a deeper sense of peace, one rep at a time.

If you need help or are worried about someone please contact The Butterfly Foundation on 1800 334 673.