My Ideas on Exercise

Reflection on Esther 4:10–16

“And who knows but that you have come to your royal position for such a time as this?” — Esther 4:14

The story of Esther reveals how unexpected circumstances can become divine appointments. She was placed in a royal palace not for comfort or status, but for courage and intercession at a time of great peril. Her moment of decision—whether to risk death by approaching the king or remain silent—reflected the deeper question every person must face: What is the purpose of this season in my life?

Who would have thought that I, of all people, would choose to stay in this foreign land—alone—after my younger sister’s passing? She was supposed to be my companion in old age, my emotional and logistical support system. Ten years my junior, yet she was the one who succumbed first to illness. And here I remain, quietly navigating life as an aging man in a country that adopted me, but no longer mirrors my generation.

There are reasons only God fully knows. He redirects quietly and gently, not always with explanations, but often with peace. I now see that I’ve been placed here, for such a time as this. Not for grand public acts like Esther’s, but for personal clarity, spiritual refinement, and quiet obedience.

Mornings are when I thrive. My energy blooms with the sun. I meditate, take long walks, and tend the yard. These routines require effort, but they keep my body from stiffening and my spirit from sinking. Still, the fatigue creeps in after noon, a stupor that no amount of reading or scrolling or driving seems to overcome.

There was a time I resisted napping, thinking it unproductive, a waste of time. But now, I embrace it as God’s way of renewing me. Sleep is not laziness; it’s medicine. It resets the nervous system, repairs cellular fatigue, and brings sharper awareness upon waking. It is one of God’s most underrated gifts.

Yet even with this understanding, I still struggle to manage my idle hours wisely. I’ve made progress—weaning myself off the compulsion to post constantly, to perform online. But temptations remain. I get pulled into TikToks and videos designed by and for the young, filled with scenarios that, deep down, I know exclude me. Rarely do I see people my age represented with dignity. When we appear, it’s for comic relief or sympathy—not inspiration.

So why do I let myself get addicted to a world that doesn’t even acknowledge me?

That is the tragic comedy of aging in the digital age: participating in a culture that has long since moved on. But I still have hope. Hope that I can reclaim what is mine—dignified time, appropriate pleasure, wise discipline. I just have to act the age I’ve spent so much time writing about.

Aging Isn’t a Walk in the Park

I used to imagine retirement as a soft landing. No more office politics, no rush-hour traffic, no toxic social dynamics—just a calm, leisurely existence. But I underestimated the losses that come with age.

There’s the emotional loss of loved ones, yes—but even more insidious is the gradual erosion of the body. Even if you eat well, exercise, and live wisely, aging still comes for you. It’s nature’s design. In my case, I was blindsided by type 2 diabetes, despite a relatively active lifestyle. I had even run marathons. But heredity had the final say. My mother had it. So did my siblings, cousins, aunts.

With diabetes comes a triad of risks: elevated blood sugar, blood pressure, and cholesterol—each increasing the chances of heart disease, stroke, and infections. It’s a ticking clock. Aging with grace becomes less about denying this reality and more about managing it daily with discipline and humility.

Let’s not pretend: the human body is a machine, and no machine escapes wear and tear. Entropy is built into creation. But it doesn’t mean we stall and rust. It just means we operate within our limitations and take care of our parts.

Work, Redefined

People often ask: What do you do now that you’re retired? I say, I still work—just differently.

For me, work no longer involves lifting patients or motivating stroke survivors. That used to be my world. As a physical therapist, I dealt with bodies that didn’t move, patients who didn’t want to move, and families who didn’t understand why it mattered so much. What people didn’t see was the emotional and physical toll that work took on the therapist too. Trying to lift and coach someone who’s heavy, scared, and resistant is no small feat.

And now, ironically, I live with the awareness that I may one day be that patient.

It’s not a fantasy. It’s a future possibility. I imagine a younger PT walking into my room and gently coaxing me to sit up, walk, or wash. And because I’ve been on the other side of that exchange, I know better than to resist. Movement is survival. It’s the first sign of life returning after illness.

But even after discharge, there’s still daily life to manage. Bathing, dressing, cooking—these tasks can become daunting. The last thing I want is to become a burden to someone else, especially to a caregiver who may already be struggling herself.

So the question remains: Am I ready for that day?

A Plan for Readiness

Readiness is a discipline. Every day, I try to do what keeps me from decline.

I don’t stay in bed all day, no matter how tempting. I avoid long stretches of couch time unless it's balanced with activity. I remind myself that the human body isn’t made for idleness. Joints need movement. Muscles need resistance. Balance needs reinforcement. The heart needs both rest and effort. The mind needs focus, challenge, and peace.

My personal checklist for this season of life now includes:

• Walking – to maintain mobility and cardiovascular strength

• Exercising – even light resistance builds resilience

• Balancing – to prevent the falls that rob us of independence

• Socializing – to keep loneliness from becoming disease

• Proper Diet and Nutrition – to fuel healing and mental clarity

• Relaxation and Rest – not as escape, but as medicine

• Play – because laughter and joy extend life

• Avoidance of Vices – because indulgence shortens it

I may no longer be Esther, standing before a king to save a nation, but I have my own throne room to approach each morning: the quiet presence of God, the invitation to live wisely, and the power to choose how I respond to life’s inevitabilities.

And maybe—just maybe—I have been placed here, for such a time as this.