Yesterday I walked 10,000 steps and drank two glasses of cucumber water, so I have decided that fitness is now my life.

To fully immerse myself in this new lifestyle (to which I am 100% committed and obviously will not forget about the first time someone offers me a glass of Pinot), I started following some of Instagram’s most popular fitness influencers.

Not just for gym legging inspiration (Lululemons are off the list if I have a hope of buying a house this decade), but just generally for a kick up the behind when I’m not feeling so motivated.

What I hadn’t foreseen was how many of these ‘fit-fluencers’ (cringe, I know) proclaim themselves to be life coaches as well. I hadn’t realised that with each newly visible ab, comes a new insight into the real meaning of the human existence.

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Watching some of their ‘self-help’ videos, I had what can only be described as a mini mental breakdown. I’ve been on the precipice of an anxiety-ridden dark spell for a couple of weeks – I can feel that I’m one small incident away from an ugly cry to end all ugly cries.

At the weekend, I yelled “will you just fuck off?” to a bee who had merely buzzed near me for a reasonable enough five seconds. So yeah, mental balance is not exactly where I’m at right now. These videos came very, very close to plunging me deep into that scary dark spell.

One video which had me clinging onto the last vestige of my mental stability for dear life, was one which started off talking about calorie deficit, then took an erratic U-Turn to lecturing about how unhappy I must be with my career. That I get no satisfaction from it. That I’m not achieving anything I set out to ten years ago. That I’m coasting through a boring life and if I were more like him I’d be living in Australia with my washboard abs and my Nike sponsorship deal, and could go surfing every morning before breakfast because actually that is what happiness looks like.

I don’t even like surfing, and Australia has far too much human-killing wildlife for me to feel envious of his life. I don’t need to dodge Great White Sharks to enjoy my morning. But his rant about the tendency to coast professionally hit me like a train.

The truth is, I’m not where I thought I would be by 26. At 16, I genuinely believed I was destined to be a barrister. A year in Law School showed me how completely unattainable that was for me. I was not just bad at law, I was dreadful. Like, farcically so. My tutors must genuinely have thought I was trolling them by being there.

Getting my degree is one of my biggest achievements, because I had seemingly chosen to study something I was awful at and instead of leaving, I thrashed my way through. It wasn’t pretty, but I got there.

Then came the question of what I was actually going to do with my life. I fell into politics which, although was a fraught time in my life, I am somewhat grateful for because had I not then I would probably be an appalling solicitor somewhere right now, losing clients’ money all over the shop. But soon enough the hostility of politics got the better of me, so I left and started my business.

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From there, my career has darted in directions I never predicted, so much so that this is going to be the last month for which my business is trading because I simply do not have enough hours in the day to run it, as well as fulfil all of my other roles.

I’m writing, I’m presenting, I’m scripting, I’m producing, I’m performing three or four nights a week…and I have absolutely no idea where any of this is going to go. I really want to be the 26 year old my 16 year old self thought I would be, but having restarted my career four times in eight years, that clearly has not happened.

But I’m kind of proud of that. I’m spending my twenties working out where I want things to go, instead of rushing to be settled into a forty year career that will see me through until retirement.

The influencer led world we’re in now shames us for not being pretty enough, wealthy enough and successful enough. It’s easy to compare your life with that of someone who is shark-dodging every morning in Oz, but some of us just need to wing it for a little while longer whilst we test out what’s going to make us happy and fulfilled over the long term.

It took Usain Bolt four years to train for a nine second race. If I need a minute to work out what I’m doing with my life, I think that’s OK.

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