The Gospel of Progress and the Weight of Flesh

I used to joke that I was a sculptor—my medium just happened to be my body.

It’s a battleground. A stage for worship and war—built from discipline, longing, and the fragile belief that more will finally be enough.
Shaped by control. By craving. By the soft voice that whispers: just a little more.

Not out of hatred.
But because I was taught that love had to be earned—through discipline, through change, through control.
I was conditioned to carve it into something lovable.
Something marketable.
Something redeemable.

“We talk about progress. We talk about health. But what we don’t say—what we dare not say—is that a lot of us are just trying to be chosen. Not just seen, but selected.”

We live in an era where the body is both product and proof.

Proof of control.
Proof of status.
Proof that we’ve transcended softness and indulgence—or whatever else we quietly shame ourselves for.

The muscular frame.
The tailored silhouette.
The high-cheekboned defiance of aging.

It’s no longer just about being attractive—it’s about being aspirational.
Marketable.
Memorable.

It’s no coincidence that in a hyper-capitalist culture, self-improvement has become the ultimate hustle.
We are now our own brands, and our bodies are the packaging.
Social capital—but make it vascular.

There’s a moment—quiet and cruel—when the project becomes the person.

When you stop noticing how far you've come, because all you can see is how far you have left to go.

It starts with a goal: lose 10 pounds.
Gain 10 pounds of muscle.
Shave seconds off your run.

But the numbers don’t end.
The mirror never stills. Never clears.
Perfection is always just a little further away.

“You become your own algorithm.
Optimizing macros.
Chasing the pump not because you love it—but because the pump is proof you exist.””

We don’t talk enough about the spiritual toll of being in constant pursuit.

I think about Narcissus sometimes. The boy who drowned in his own reflection.
Or Icarus, who flew too close to the sun, chasing godhood.

In both stories, the body was the vessel—and the failure.

Even religion doesn’t let us escape the body.
Fasting, cleansing, abstaining.
Disciplining flesh to earn divinity.

The gym isn’t so different.
It's liturgical.
Repetitive.
A space of penance and rebirth.

Even self-love is a performance now.

We caption it with grace, but underneath the smooth language of “healing” and “progress” is often a deep ache.
We’re told to love ourselves—just not like that.
Not too much.
Not unless it aligns with the aesthetic algorithm of beauty, power, and control.

The curated morning routine.
The perfect post-run selfie.
The soft-toned “self-care” days, still edited to fit a moodboard.

Even rest must be marketable.

“We risk turning our bodies into museums of effort. Always refining. Never resting. Never arriving.”

Here’s what we risk when we pursue perfection:
We forget how to simply be.

We lose softness.
We flinch at stillness.
We become estranged from the very thing that holds our memories, carries our grief, and bears our joy.

The body becomes a thing to fix, not a place to live.

And maybe worst of all—
We bury older versions of ourselves so deep in our pursuit of better that we forget who they were.
What they carried.
What they endured.
What they meant.

We call it growth.
But sometimes it feels like erasure.

I’m learning to ask myself softer questions.

Not: How do I become better?
But: Can I live inside myself without punishment?

Can I shift from sculpting to stewarding?
Can I build strength without turning vulnerability into sin?
Can I trust that who I am in this moment—even unfinished—is worthy of witness?

“Maybe the goal isn’t perfection.
Maybe it’s presence. Maybe the most radical thing we can do in a world obsessed with progress...is stay.”