a single stair

I am 41 years old, and on March 24, 2026, I jumped a single stair.

I have approached my stairs with the thought before, talked down by my nervous discomfort of employing my body for service.

For as long as I can remember, I have been fighting the ingloriousness of having one at all.

When I was younger, I would wake up early to sweat to the oldies with my mother. I remember her touching my rounding belly at 12 and meeting my gaze in the mirror with the warning: “Don’t let that happen to you.” My body was something that was happening to me. I developed young, drew the male gaze, and calculated that my only asset was how much I could be wanted. I was shocked to find myself pregnant with my son out of college, convinced my degree in starvation would necessitate infertility. My periods were uncommon because I was teaching them a lesson: You do not bleed, you do not need.

Every New Year, I think about my body and what needs to change. I have birthed two babies, gained and lost as much weight as I have relationships. It’s practically symbolic. Strength was never a focus of my relationship with my body. Women didn’t lift or add bulk; they smoked cigarettes and protruded their hipbones over low-rise jeans. I realized too late how much this deficit has created a problem with my physical health. My bicep tendons were injured when my dog pulled too hard on the leash. I am ill-equipped for aging. Facing my forties, I felt unprepared for the fact that I would no longer need my body to be a vessel for the male gaze. I would need it to sustain my own life. I am behind.

You name a diet or workout trend, and I have been on it. I’ve begged my Father to purchase Billy Blanks on VHS, and I’ve kept a Pilates reformer gathering dust under my bed. When I was in college, Drew Barrymore told People Magazine she ran six miles a day to keep the weight off, and I began running six miles a day. I’ve fought tooth and nail to leave disordered eating behind, but I needed something, a small introduction to fitness, to commit to my new year, new me. As I was doomscrolling Instagram this past December, I came across a video underscored by a polite song, “Do this for ten minutes every day!” It promised ancient Chinese health benefits. Simple movement actions were the basis of the story, such as swinging your arms and jumping up and down. Simple. Ancient. Promising. 41-year-old me in a nutshell.

I wanted to narrow my goal to be more successful. I chose jumping. Specifically, to do one hundred jumps every morning. The last time I jumped onto any great height, I had pigtails and recess.

The morning of January 1, I began my jumps. My daughter’s dad came upstairs that morning and asked why it had sounded like the floor was about to cave in. I decided to relocate outside. Here I was, every morning since, jumping 100 times as my dogs mosey around the lawn. Some days, it feels rather foolish as I bunny-hop from one patch of grass to the next. No one bears witness, no one comments on my form. My dogs think it is time to play, but they are too busy pooping.

It is now the end of March. I have jumped for three months. As I went to walk inside with my dogs, I noticed the three steps up to our front porch looming and stopped to consider: could I jump them? Would I fail, break my teeth, or humiliate myself? I walked up the first two, terrified of my own inadequacy. I stood at the third and with the most overreaching act of movement one has ever seen, I braced myself for a two-footed leap from ground into air to clear the next step. I landed with a thrilled, shrill cry, startling my dogs. 100 jumps a day, and I had leaped a stair.