When the world stops making sense, start moving your body

Through breakups, war headlines and unemployment - thank god for deadlifts.

“Ham khaate peete ghar ke log hain,” (We are a family that eats and lives well) has been my dad’s standard response when asked why we are a family of big bellies and zero muscle definition. Nothing dramatic here - anybody raised in your average middle-class Indian household has heard some version of this.

So when I first moved to the Netherlands, it was but natural that I sniggered at your neighbourhood Henks and Mariekes as they jogged in below-freezing temperatures. Like, don’t be stupid guys, go home.

Life overhaul

Turns out, back then I had no idea what was coming. In 2022, I went through a deeply humbling, hygiene-compromising breakup with a basic Chad. I lost most of my friends because, turns out, they were “his friends first.” So was the apartment. In addition to this, my beloved job at the largest peace organisation in the Netherlands suddenly felt uncertain. Contrary to what you’d think, it was the loss of housing that hit me hardest. Anyone who has tried to look for housing in Europe knows what I mean. The cherry on top: this was peak second-wave COVID.

Nothing made sense. Nothing was in my control. In those difficult months, two unexpected hobbies made life bearable. First, funnily enough, was astrology; second was movement. In this article, we dive deep into the second.

Without a home, I was crashing on a close friend’s couch, even as her roommates were playing guessing games about what smells like what, thanks to Covid. One evening, sick of being miserable, I left the house, got on my bike and started cycling. I crossed Rijswijk, I crossed The Hague, I even crossed Katwijk. Before I knew it, I found myself 30 km away in Leiden. I got off and went into a supermarket. I picked up a bottle of water before taking the train back to Rijswijk.

Two Wheels, No Plan.

That night, my calves were on fire and I slept like a baby. Those who have lived through peak anxiety would know that during particularly difficult times, deep sleep is a luxury. The next morning, I took the train to Leiden. I had parked my bike near the train station. It was time to bring her back. That summer, I biked between 120-150 km per week. Two months in, the calves were solid, the quads defined. My body, at least, had begun to feel reliable again.

The world outside, not so much. Much of the Middle East, my area of focus at work, was on fire. As COVID restrictions ended, Europe started to see a surge in far right politics. My organisation’s funding streams started drying up and rumours of bankruptcy circulated internally. At the same time, my bestie, ChatGPT was replacing junior staff, leading to shorter contracts and job market shifts. As external circumstances were slipping beyond my control, I began to clutch tightly to what remained within reach. I started going to the gym four days a week and became obsessed with my protein intake.

The first month was brutal. I remember waking up in the mornings unable to move. My arms ached like they’d been wrung out, my glutes and thighs protested with every step. As I sat through calls with colleagues who had lost family members and attended fruitless advocacy meetings about subduing the military offensive in Gaza, I focused on the burn in my limbs for temporary respite. In the evenings, when I hit the gym, the world outside didn’t exist. The dumbbells became tiny, iron diplomats negotiating ceasefires with my anxiety.

On May 7th, 2025, the news cycle seemed particularly relentless. Israel was still bombing southern Lebanon, and mini jump scares from Al Jazeera kept popping on my screen. One of our partners remarked matter-of-factly during a call, “Hezbollah’s military headquarters in Dahiye would naturally be the first places to be bombed.”

Another front opens

Around the same time, India and Pakistan began exchanging missiles. A few hours in, the Government of India issued a mandatory directive asking government employees to report physically to work - my mother included. Her office sits a stone’s throw away from the Indian Army headquarters in New Delhi. Like Dahiye, it was under high alert.

I stepped out of the meeting room and tried to call her immediately. The call didn’t go through. Two hours later, I was informed by my manager that my contract would not be extended beyond January 2026 due to funding shortages.

I remember that day vividly. A PhD thesis could be written about how May 7th bagged gold after gold at the oppression Olympics. That evening, I got off at Den Haag Central and walked to my gym. I changed outfits, filled my water bottle, and started lifting. Until then, somewhere between the bombings in the Bekaa valley and the frantic hoarding of essentials in New Delhi, I had been trapped in my mind. As I picked up the dumbbells, I slowly came back to my body, one measured rep at a time.

Endorphins kick in

And then, after an especially heavy set of single leg RDLs, the endorphins kicked in. The world was on fire, and in addition to being unmarried, I was soon to be unemployed, adding to the stigma. And yet, I knew it was going to be alright. I was young, I was healthy and there’s nothing a good matar paneer (cheese-peas curry) cannot fix. It would all eventually make sense. I left the gym feeling lighter and more hopeful than when I had entered. This pattern would continue through the months.

Today, 18 months since I first started lifting, I shoulder-press half my body weight. I hip thrust twice my body weight and I can do one pull-up easily. I am 7 kg lighter than when I started out and have visibly defined triceps. For the first time in my life, I have an ass. I barely remember my pre-gym self.

The world is still falling apart, now much faster than ever. Dating still feels like a joke and stable employment is as far away from me as can be. And yet, things feel calmer, at least here, within my body.

Strong over skinny

An extra note for the ladies. I know what you are thinking: “Isn’t strength training for men and what if I end up looking like the female version of Hulk Hogan.” First, no you will not. It takes an entire aisle of steroids on top of decades of lifting the equivalent of a mini cooper above your head to look like that.

Second, so what if you do? For centuries, we have been instructed to shrink and become smaller so that Chad and Ramesh can feel like big, strong, manly men. Not anymore. Strength training changed my life. It made me believe in myself. If I can see my body breaking its own boundaries, if I can show up four days a week - rain or snow - to improve myself, then there is nothing I could not do. I can open my own jars and lift my own boxes. Last month, I grabbed a man by the shoulder to prevent him from ‘accidentally’ (so he said) falling on my friend. He was surprised at my grip strength. Like no big deal brother, I deadlift my body weight, I am here to rescue you.

So, girls and boys, let this be your call to get moving. Start easy and small, but start today. Do a quick dance to your favourite Britney number. (Personally, I’d go for Madhuri) And then add a bit more tomorrow. A set of burpees, a quick run around the block, skipping rope on the terrace. Next month, head to your neighborhood gym. Touch the machines, pick up a dumbbell, observe and then start. Just start and keep going. You’ll see what I mean.

This was just my story and I am no expert, but maybe in another post, I dive into the messy, hilarious mechanics of my gym journey. Let me know if that would be interesting.

Post Script: While this article focused on my anxiety, my grief is nothing compared to the pain of my friends and colleagues in Lebanon and Palestine; or Kashmir which bore the major brunt of bombings between India and Pakistan. Write/call/message/send a carrier pigeon to your elected representatives today. Demand accountability. Silence helps no one.