What The Alchemist Taught Me About Strength, Stillness, and Growing the Hell Up.

I read The Alchemist for the first time at a strange point in my life.
The kind of point where you’re not quite lost—but you’re definitely not home yet either.
And like a lot of people who’ve picked up that book when they needed it most, I didn’t expect it to land the way it did.

It’s not really a story about treasure. It’s about a shepherd boy chasing something deeper—a knowing. A whisper inside him that said, “There’s more. Keep going.”

That hit me. Because in many ways, that’s the same whisper that brings women into my world.
Into training. Into coaching. Into a new season of showing up differently—for their bodies, their health, their goals, and ultimately, their life.

We think we’re just looking for strength or fat loss or energy. But really?
We’re looking for a way back to ourselves.

There’s a line in the book that says:
"When you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it."

But here’s what I’ve learned in the gym, in my kitchen, and in the messy middle of becoming someone new:
The universe might conspire, but it doesn’t carry your ass through the hard parts.

You still have to show up.
You have to lift the weight. Eat the meal. Have the uncomfortable conversation. Say no when it’s easier to say yes. Choose discipline when chaos is cheaper.

And in the beginning, it might feel like you’re doing it for nothing.
Like you’re pouring effort into a hole that doesn’t give back.
But if you keep going… it changes you.

You become someone who follows through.
You build a life with rhythm instead of reactivity.
You stop outsourcing your worth to calories burned or meals skipped or how quiet you can keep your needs.

You start realizing that your body isn’t something to control—
It’s something to listen to.

In the book, the shepherd boy’s journey isn’t linear.
He makes mistakes. He doubts himself. He falls in love, gets hurt, gets robbed, starts over.

Sound familiar?

Because let’s be honest—most of us don’t wake up one day and suddenly become “the type of person who trains consistently and eats with intention.”

We fumble. We fall off. We eat the thing we said we wouldn’t. We skip the week we swore we wouldn’t miss.

But then—if we’re really paying attention—we come back.
Not because we’re perfect.
But because we’re committed.
To the process. To the person we’re becoming. To the kind of life we actually want to live.

That’s what movement and nourishment do.
They aren’t chores. They’re anchors.
They give us a structure to come back to when everything else feels like too much.
They remind us that we’re capable—even when our brains are screaming otherwise.

Another lesson from The Alchemist that stuck with me is this:
"The fear of suffering is worse than the suffering itself."

I’ve watched that play out in real life too many times to count.

We fear change. We fear failure. We fear letting ourselves down.
But more often than not, the thing we’re avoiding isn’t actually that bad—it’s just new. It’s unfamiliar. It asks us to become someone who doesn’t rely on chaos or scarcity to feel safe.

And that’s where training comes in.
That’s where structure, discipline, and daily practice start doing the soul work.

Because when you learn to show up for your workouts, even when you don’t feel like it—
You’re building the same muscle that will show up for hard conversations, for grief, for uncertainty, for life.

It’s not just about squats.
It’s about sovereignty.

I believe movement and lifestyle habits are an integral part of growing up—not just aging, but growing the hell up.
Because this work teaches you how to take radical responsibility for your choices, your energy, and your environment.

Not to punish yourself. Not to shrink.
But to step into something real.
Something rooted. Something that holds.

So yeah—The Alchemist might be about a shepherd boy.
But it’s also about us. About any of us who’ve ever felt the pull to change.
To get strong—not just in our muscles, but in our minds.
To pursue peace—not through perfection, but through presence.
To stop asking for permission and start following the call that’s been in us all along.

And if you’re in that season right now—the messy middle, the awakening, the re-entry into your own story—
Know this:

It’s okay if you don’t have the whole plan.
You’re allowed to be strong and uncertain.
You can chase performance and peace.

You don’t have to know exactly where it leads.
You just have to start walking.