Beginning Again
There’s a particular kind of quiet that follows loss. Not the peaceful kind — the kind that rearranges everything inside you. Before my husband died, I was deep into my StrongFirst SFG1 training. I had structure, rhythm, a sense of direction. My body felt strong. My days had shape.
And then, suddenly, they didn’t.
Grief has a way of dissolving the parts of you that once felt solid. It doesn’t just take the person you love — it takes your orientation. The things that once felt natural become unreachable. My body, which had always been my anchor, simply… stopped responding. The desire to train disappeared. Not out of laziness or lack of discipline, but because my system was overwhelmed. Completely.
For a long time, I thought this was a kind of failure. Now I can see it was a kind of protection.
The Body in Grief
People often talk about grief as an emotion, but it’s a full-body state. It changes your breath. Your posture. Your capacity to hold tension. It makes everything feel heavier — not metaphorically, but literally. The nervous system closes the door on anything that feels like demand.
Strength training wasn’t possible. My body didn’t want load. It wanted safety. It wanted softness. It wanted time.
So I stopped. Fully. And the pause lasted far longer than I expected.
The Quiet Return
There wasn’t a dramatic moment where I decided to “get back on track.” It was much smaller than that. A flicker. A sense of maybe.
My first step wasn’t a workout. It was picking up a kettlebell, feeling its weight in my hand, and putting it back down. That was enough.
The next day, I walked. Slowly. No pace. No targets.
Then I hinged once. Just once.
This is how bodies return: not through force, but through permission.
As I’ve been finding my way back into movement, I’ve been thinking about something Laura Khoudari writes about in Lifting Heavy Things — the idea that strength work can be a trauma-sensitive practice. That sometimes the heaviest thing you lift is the weight of your own life. And that rebuilding isn’t about pushing; it’s about meeting yourself exactly where you are.
That idea has been sitting quietly beside me as I re-enter my own training. One breath. One hinge. One moment of noticing.
How I’m Re‑Entering Training Now
I’m rebuilding from the inside out, and I’m letting it be simple. Gentle. Honest.
My first steps look like:
Breath before anything else
Letting my ribs, diaphragm, and side-body wake up again.One pattern at a time
Hinge. Carry. Press. Not all in one day. Not even all in one week.Short sessions
Five minutes. Ten minutes. Enough to remind my system that movement is safe.Feeling instead of performing
Not chasing perfect form. Just noticing what’s there.Letting my scoliosis guide the sequencing
Supporting the curves rather than fighting them.
This is the same approach I use with clients — slow, grounded, and deeply respectful of where the body actually is.
If You’re Starting Again Too
Maybe you’re returning after grief.
Maybe after pain.
Maybe after burnout or overwhelm or simply a long pause.
Wherever you’re coming from, you’re not behind. You’re beginning.
And beginnings are allowed to be small.
Here are gentle places to start:
Start with breath
Start with the side that feels easiest
Start with one movement
Start with five minutes
Start with curiosity instead of pressure
You don’t need motivation. You need safety. You need permission. You need a path that doesn’t demand more than you have.
Why This Work Matters to Me
My own spine has always been asymmetrical. My life has been too. I understand what it means to adapt, to rebuild, to work with what’s real rather than what’s ideal.
Strength training for scoliosis isn’t about fixing anything. It’s about supporting the pattern so you can move with more ease, more confidence, and more trust in your body.
This is the work I’m returning to now — in myself and in my teaching.
How I Can Support You
If you’re navigating scoliosis, pain, or a body that’s been reshaped by life, I’ve created a gentle strength pathway that meets you exactly where you are. It’s the same approach I’m using to rebuild myself — slow, spacious, and sustainable.
You can explore it at dawn-ingram.com, and if it feels like the right fit, you’re welcome to join me.
This is a beginning story.
And beginnings don’t need to be loud.