A one-year experiment
My body, it turns out, never received the memo. So this is the diary: four letters a month, written while the triumphs, disasters and muscle pain are still fresh.
On 18 July 2026, I turned 49.
That was unsettling enough. Then I remembered a promise I had made to myself years earlier: by the time I turned 50, I would be lighter, healthier and in the best shape of my adult life.
Unfortunately, my body appears not to have received the memo.
Instead of becoming lighter, I have travelled enthusiastically in the opposite direction. Apparently, eating, drinking and hoping for the best do not constitute a recognised weight-loss strategy.
Who knew?
So here we are. I have given myself exactly one year to lose 50 pounds before I turn 50.
Because fitness and I are not complete strangers. We know each other. We have history. I played sports at school, danced in college and have spent much of my adult life sporadically appearing at aerobics classes, Zumba sessions, swimming pools and gyms.
I genuinely enjoy moving. I also genuinely enjoy cake, wine, cheese, pasta, nyama choma, mukimo and food prepared by people who would be personally offended if I refused a second helping.
It's complicated.
This is not a fitness manual, a diet plan or expert advice from someone posing beside a plate of lettuce. It is a real-time account of one woman trying to become healthier while navigating work, family, travel, social occasions, ageing knees and an appetite that does not respect deadlines.
Every month, I will share four distinct weekly letters to my body—written while the triumphs, disasters and muscle pain are still fresh.
Some weeks I may lose weight. Some weeks I may discover that I have gained four kilos. There will be gym sessions, swimming, walking, food negotiations, questionable excuses and unfamiliar muscles lodging formal complaints.
The number on the scale is part of the story, but it is not the whole story.
Success also means moving my body at least four times a week, reaching 10,000 steps a day, eating better, swimming two kilometres comfortably and writing consistently enough to complete this journey—and perhaps a book.
Most importantly, I want to find out whether an ordinary, imperfect person can make a meaningful change without becoming miserable, obsessive or one of those mysterious people who claim to enjoy burpees.
I don't know how this story ends yet. That is what makes it worth documenting.
So, welcome to Fit-ish by Fifty.
Cheer for me, laugh with me and, if you have also been postponing a promise to yourself, perhaps this is your invitation to begin your own imperfect journey.
Dear Body, we need to talk.
Apparently, we have quite a lot to discuss.
One email when a new weekly letter goes up, and one when the month gets its roll-up. No meal plans, no before-and-afters, no shouting.
Month 1 · Week 4
Everything hurts, the muscles are threatening legal action — and yet: 71,315 steps, five days over 10,000, and a first, humbling encounter with mat Pilates and a very orange exercise ball.
Month 1 · Week 3
KFC in Nairobi, twenty hours of good intentions at 35,000 feet, then jet lag in Bogotá demanding fries. But the city walks, the Ciclovía calls—and I ended the week with a gym membership.
Month 1 · Week 2
There is something distinctly unsettling about turning 49. Then came the life-insurance medical, the triage scale, and four extra kilos I had not ordered. Four kilos, people!
