Big Mo and the Fragile Win

The Myth of Momentum

I lie in bed and imagine it so clearly: Waking early. Smashing my morning routine. A solid kettlebell workout or a run. Then straight into meaningful work—creating and shipping things I actually care about. Living a healthy, balanced life. Present, productive, peaceful. A man living with intention.

That’s the future I keep seeing.

But I’m not in it. Not yet.

I’m on the edge of it. Outside looking in. The weird thing is, I’m not doing nothing. I’ve done good work, got out in the fresh air, and journaled every day. But still, there’s this sense of being just shy of delivering on my intention. Like I’m hovering around a form of myself I can’t quite fall into.

It’s the exercise I’m struggling with. I can’t seem to build any momentum and string days together.

Momentum, in my head, looks clean. Strong. Simple. In real life, it’s fragile. It has to be earned. And I keep thinking I’m about to catch it, but then the day slips, the weather floods, and I’m back in bed with a mint tea, telling myself I’ll start again tomorrow.

Breaking the Seal

There’s this moment that always gets me. The bit just before I begin.

Lying in bed, comfortable and warm, thinking: I’ll do a kettlebell workout this afternoon. I believe it. I see future-me lifting the weight above my head. Feeling strong. Proud. But when the time comes, I avoid it. I bury the thought, find a distraction, tell myself tomorrow’s a better day to start.

I don’t hate myself for it. But I do notice the pattern. It’s frustrating. Because once I break the seal—once I do the first swing or run—I usually find a rhythm. I string a few days or weeks together. I feel good.

It’s not like I do nothing. I stretch, walk the dog, do push-ups and squats most days. But that’s maintenance. What I’m craving is something that builds. Something that makes me feel strong in my body and mind.

But that first honest rep, the one that would start it all, feels like lifting a mountain.

The Slip and the Celebration

When I do get going and string a few workouts together, it feels good. I can feel Big Mo behind me. Starting becomes easier. There’s less noise in my head pulling me away.

But then, almost inevitably, I lose it.

Sometimes life just takes over—a week away, an injury, an illness. Sometimes I feel so good about things that I over-celebrate how brilliant I am, which leads to a string of hangovers that take a week to recover from. Before I know it, I’m back at the start. Big Mo has left me. Again.

And I always feel it. Not in the guilt, but in the energy. A dullness creeps in. Restless sleep. That slippery sense I’ve let something slide and now I’m avoiding the truth of it.

That’s when the old voice returns: You’re lazy. You’re not built for this. You may as well stop trying and go to the pub.

But I know that voice now. I’ve seen it for what it is. Just a script my ego spouts out. Not the truth. Just the low part of the cycle.

The Return Without Punishment

So here I am. Back at the start. Again.

It’s easy to feel like I’ve failed. To spiral into stories about discipline and identity. To believe the ego when it tells me the ship has sailed.

But that’s just noise.

The truth is, I’m still here. Writing. Noticing. Starting again.

That’s the real work. Not the run or the swing, but the decision to go again without needing to beat myself up first.

Momentum isn’t heroic. It’s not a perfect plan or a fixed streak. It’s a mood. A rhythm. Something I can drop into again and again, even after I drift.

The trick isn’t to hold it perfectly. It’s to stop abandoning myself when I lose it.

A Note to the Reader

Maybe you’re in the same spot. Circling your own version of momentum. Telling yourself tomorrow’s the day. Waiting to feel ready.

If that’s you, I get it. It’s hard. It’s messy. But you’re not broken.

Momentum isn’t a clean start. It’s a quiet return. And every time you notice, every time you decide to try again, that counts.

So don’t wait for the perfect morning. Just begin. Even if it’s small. Even if it’s scrappy.

There is no utopia here; it’s a ride that goes up and down. Enjoy it.