You still go to the gym. The effort is real — the same effort it has always been. You are working out like a pro athlete. Training the way you trained at 38.
Making no progress.
The belly arrived at 52 or 53 and it has been completely indifferent to everything you have thrown at it since. It does not care about your training program. It does not care about the diet. It just sits there. Recovery now takes five days for a session that used to take two.
The sharpness that used to be automatic has been replaced by something slower. Foggier. The brain that used to run fast — the one that was always two steps ahead, that had the answer before the question was finished — now has to work for things it used to do without thinking.
You walk into rooms with a purpose and stop. Thirty seconds. Trying to remember why you are there. You sit in meetings and pull the answer from somewhere further back than it used to be. You drive home and cannot remember the last fifteen minutes of motorway.
The mood arrives sometimes with no cause and no announcement.
Life is genuinely good — you know it is good, you can list the reasons — and some evenings it sits on you anyway. Heavy. Sourceless. Just a general bummer that settles in and does not say when it is leaving.
Restless and lazy at the same time. Two states that should not coexist. And yet here they are, every evening, in the same body.
The irritability you do not understand. You snapped at someone last week who did not deserve it. You spent the rest of the evening with the quiet question of who you are becoming.
At some point — without deciding to — your life contracted.
You are basically working and sleeping. That is what your days have become. You go to work. You come home. You do the minimum of what needs doing. You go to bed. You wake up tired. You go to work.
The things you used to want to do in the evenings — the energy for them, the appetite for them — just stopped arriving. You call it tiredness. You call it a busy period. You keep moving the goalposts on when things will go back to normal.
And then there is the part you have not said to anyone.
The want has gone quiet. Not completely — but the automatic part. The desire that used to arrive on a Tuesday for no reason. The reaching without thinking. The part of you that used to make her feel chosen without effort, without planning, without a special occasion. That part has been quieter than it should be. For longer than you want to count.
The love has not gone anywhere. You know that completely. You love her exactly the way you loved her when you chose her. That has never changed for a single day.
What has changed is harder to name. The automatic part. And she feels the difference even if neither of you has said it out loud.
Some evenings she reaches toward you. And somewhere inside — somewhere you would never say out loud and barely let yourself think — the honest thought is:
Please. Just leave me alone.
And then the shame of having thought it. Because you love her. Completely. And you cannot explain — to her or to yourself — where the man went who used to reach first.
You are still showing up. Still going to the gym. Still going to work. Still coming home. Still trying to be present for the people who need you.
But the man who used to do those things with energy, with presence, with something to give at the end of the day — that man has been getting quieter. And you have been adjusting your expectations downward so gradually that you almost missed you were doing it.