Yesterday, I went for a check-up with Dr Moses. He walked in, looked at me, squinted a little… and then said the most beautiful words I’ve ever heard in my entire life:
“You look different. Did you lose weight?”
I could’ve cried on the spot. I wanted to frame that moment. Bottle it. Autotune it and make it my ringtone.
And then I said, “Yes, Doc… 3 kilograms.”
(That’s three. solid. kilos.)
Before I even saw him, I went to the assessment counter—got my blood pressure checked, got weighed. The nurse smiled and said, “Your blood pressure looks great… and you lost 3 kg!”
She didn’t know it, but I almost hugged her. Blood pressure: perfect. Weight: lighter. Ego: SKY HIGH. 
But enough about my glorious 3kg...
Let me tell you how I got here. Or rather—who got me here: my new trainer, Jack.
"Meet Jack: The Smiling Assassin"
Jack is what happens when kindness meets quiet torture.
At first, he seems gentle, encouraging, soft-spoken… until you realise he’s plotting to make your muscles cry.
I’ve done 10 sessions with him so far—and I think I’m better. Stronger. Fitter. Leaner.
But mostly, I’m sore.
Every session, we hit the exercise corner at my apartment.
You know—the one I used to walk past thinking, “Ha! Not for me.”
Now it’s my new playground… and battlefield.
"Yesterday’s Bootcamp Breakdown"
TRX Row – Jack says, “Just lean back.”
Me: “Just? JUST?”
I lean back like I’m falling off a cliff. Arms shaking, legs panicking, dignity dangling.
Paused Squats (Bodyweight) – Jack: “Now hold it at the bottom.”
Me: “What am I? A human kettlebell?”
Incline Push-ups –
Jack: “Lower… lower…”
Me: “Can I lower my expectations instead?”
Triceps Extension –
Jack: “Feel the burn?”
Me: “I think my arms are writing their resignation letter.”
And just when I think it’s over… he says:
“Let’s walk around the garden.”
Yesterday I clocked 10,000 steps. That’s right—10k!
To most people, that’s a daily goal.
To me—someone who could barely hit 4k steps after three falls in the past two years—that’s a massive win.
"And Then… The ‘Cheating’ Begins"
Every time I think I’m done, Jack whispers the words I now fear more than anything:
“More reps.”
He says it so casually.
Then he says “Just five more.”
Then while I’m daydreaming about char kway teow or falling into a bush on purpose, he says:
“Three more! You can!”
Next thing I know—I’ve done 8 more reps I didn’t sign up for.
I swear he’s hypnotising me mid-squat.
But here’s the thing:
Without all that “cheating,” I wouldn’t have lost 3kg.
I wouldn’t be feeling stronger.
I wouldn’t be walking further.
And I definitely wouldn’t be annoying my doctor with my newfound glow. 
Final Thoughts:
So here’s to Jack—trainer, motivator, rep-count manipulator.
Here’s to exercise corners, sore muscles, and surprise 10k steps.
Here’s to 3kg down… and a lot more confidence up.
And here’s to me—still wobbling, still whining… but doing it anyway.
Because I can.
And because Jack won’t let me say otherwise.