The Power of Ten Minutes: One Small Habit That Transformed My Identity

I’m in a wretched, burning, aching discomfort. My knees are shaking. I’m staring at my tennis shoes while pushing against an unbearable weight. I’m strapped into this leg-press contraption engineered specifically for me—the angle of my back, the distance of my feet, the exact calibration of resistance.

I push against the machine, trying to keep this glowing green dot above an escalating line as the machine pushes against me. This constant strain continues for two solid minutes.

My coach is shouting encouragements like, “You got this! Don’t let up—hold it, feel the burn!” Meanwhile, all I want afterward is to curl into a ball and feel sorry for myself. He comes in for a high five. I’m just trying not to cry.

“Next machine! Let’s go, let’s go!”

I stagger over on jello legs. Two back-to-back arm exercises. Then another machine. And another. Fifteen minutes of this—six or seven different stations—before the grand finale: five minutes of cardio hell. The cardio at the end is what I dread all day. It pushes every limit I have. My entire body is a weak ravaged limp noodle by this point and I have to somehow find strength and endurance.

The coach gets me to the poles quickly without rest and starts the clock. I have five HIIT exercises with these terribly cruel resistance poles. I have to stir the pot, alternating push/pull, arcs, figure 8’s in both directions. Legs get a break, but core and arms are pushed beyond the limits.

Two Minutes of Misery

I’m breathing hard, sweaty, and staggering when it ends at the bike. The dreaded bike. I watch the coach choose which program he will subject me to. He passes over the hills, beyond the steady climb, to a giant pyramid shape. He punches it up to level 12 and hits “Go.” I have to push myself for two solid minutes, winding both arms and legs with everything I have left, heaving and feeling lightheaded.

The loud, heavy breathing that is coming out of me is both involuntary and embarrassing—kind of like the four times I gave birth and breathed through each contraction. When the two minutes are over, I sit in the bike seat like someone who just finished a triathlon, flung themselves over the finish line, and collapsed.

It’s by far the hardest two minutes of my day.

And here’s the thing: I could easily put forth half effort, slug through it, with my dial only reaching 40 RPMs, and probably feel okay throughout the whole thing. But ever since my coach saw that I could do it at 70-80 RPMs, he insists that no matter how hard it gets not to drop into the 60’s ever. So every week I push myself to stay above 70 RPMs no matter what.

I call this place my torture chamber. It only lasts a total of 20 minutes for only twice per week. I have been going for four months now and see a shocking difference in my muscle mass and tone.

Labels and Lies

My entire life, I have been a gushy, plushy gal with no visible muscle. I was told I was an endomorph and would probably never see muscle definition, so I have lived my whole adult life identifying this way.

I would look in the mirror and tell myself, “You are a woman. You are an endomorph woman. You have a slower metabolism, you gain weight easily, and no one will ever see your muscles. They exist under your fat.”

I never identified as a fitness person. I have battled chubbiness my whole life. My dad always called me “perfect,” but I knew from his Greek definitions of “perfect” that meant chubby.

In high school I was into sports and played basketball, volleyball, and soccer. But once I graduated high school, I didn't exercise again until I was in my 40’s. At 46 years old, I had collected 30 extra pounds and by medical standards was overweight to the point that it could affect my health.

As a family, we had just become aware of how poisonous our food had become. Every day we were learning about the chemicals, the seed oils, the trans fats, and the terrible mystery ingredients in all processed food. I hired a nutritionist, and we all went on the Pegan Diet—a combination of vegan and paleo.

We ate lean meat, lots of protein, low carb veggies, and stone fruits. We limited the amount of fat and oils we were consuming and started exercising. The nutritionist told me to work out Monday through Friday and to start with 10 minutes at the same time, at the same place, with special clothes each day. She said it didn’t matter what I did, or if it was even effective. I just had to train myself on the habit. Once the habit was set, I could start making the workouts harder.

I was bought in because I already did this with art and other work-related tasks. I knew how to build a habit. So I bought exercise clothes and shoes, designated an area, and chose a time. I found that if all of my clothes were not laid out the night before, I would get distracted and not show up for my workout. I bought an elliptical machine and worked out for just 10 minutes a day to cement the habit.

Finding a New Me

After a few months, I began to work out for 20 minutes each day. I felt amazing. I had more energy and felt stronger, but most importantly I began to identify as a workout person.

For the first time in my life, I had hope that I could eventually look like Jillian Michaels. But I heard and read everywhere that exercise doesn’t affect physical appearance as much as what you eat. I started eating only whole food, but I couldn't imagine how I could improve eating healthy. So again, I resigned myself to being an endomorph. I thought that's just the way it was. “Thanks, Dad, and my fleshy Greek genes!”

A year and a half ago, I switched from my own in-house workouts, to going to a pilates gym and joining daily classes. At first, I wondered how it was even exercise, until I felt the effects and lived with constant sore muscles. The instructor calls it the “pilates fairies coming to visit.” After a few months, I was completely sold on the wonder of pilates. I saw my body begin to change, which really encouraged me to cut portions of food and exercise even more.

Then, last January, I decided to be hardcore!

This meant changing my morning routine and basically committing the first three hours to physical activity. After an hour of pilates, I walk 1.5 miles to ride my horse. Then, when I finish riding, I do my barn chores and walk 1.5 miles back—and now I have added the torture chamber twice a week so that I can also build some muscle.

How Far I've Come

On one of those early mornings, as I’m getting ready to start my hardcore morning routine, I find myself staring down at my drawer now full of sports bras and leggings. I’m flooded with wonder as I realize that this collection of workout clothes is evidence of my transformation. It’s evidence of a change in my body, but even more so, of a whole shift in my identity. I have become a workout person, and it has affected every aspect of my life.

Before, I used to see influencers or friends who worked out and feel very far removed from this fitness world. I thought of myself as someone who was out of shape and unfit and flabby. It subconsciously ate at my self-esteem. It affected how I felt about my looks and inner mettle. I viewed myself as someone who was physically apathetic.

Now I am 52 and have never felt better. I’m not the chubby girl who once accepted her chubbiness as her unchangeable fate. I can honestly say I am more fit and have more energy than I did even in my 20s.

I have trained myself to face resistance first thing in the morning. I’ve learned to say “NO!” to laziness and yes to myself and personal improvement. I charge through the discomfort and burning pain that comes with a good workout. I welcome the strain of building muscle and improving cardio.

Small Habits, Big Changes

I was never a fitness person for most of my life, but now I can’t imagine life without exercise. The ability to master my body and truly enjoy exercise, has equipped me to begin to master my schedule, routines, and mental attitude. I think about my business differently. I think about my art differently. I handle pressure and being overwhelmed much better.

Morning daily exercise has not only transformed my physical strength, but has become a way of declaring to all the powers of the universe—resistance included—”You cant touch me. You have no power over me. I will fulfill my destiny. I am a world changer who will leave my mark on culture, and I will leave a legacy that was written in heaven before the foundations of the world.”

And it all started with a commitment to a daily 10 minutes.

Ten minutes a day can change your life. This is true for any practice you want to make permanent. Do watercolor for 10 minutes every single day. Journal all that you are thankful for for 10 minutes every day. Search online for opportunities for 10 minutes every day. Make sources for 10 minutes every day. Pull weeds for 10 minutes every day. Move your body for 10 minutes every day.

Whatever change you want to make in your life, you can do it. You just have to create a beachhead within yourself to build upon. This will bring about permanent change, and most importantly a confidence in yourself that you have not yet known.

You can do it! I believe in you. It's only a decision, followed by committed and consistency.

If you committed just 10 minutes a day to one thing, what would it be?

Share your thoughts in the comments below!