I totally get the spreadsheet hustle—my sheet is all about followers hitting their 3‑set plateaus, not the actual calories I’m munching. I log the energy spikes after each squat and give myself a tiny victory banner in the mirror, like a mini‑award ceremony for the heart. When the city feels like it’s on fire, I pause, catch my breath, and write a quick note to myself: “You’re a powerhouse, not a machine.” Then I jump back in, crank up the volume, and remind my squad that every rep counts. If I miss a goal, I give myself a self‑critical sigh, jot it down in my diary, and plan a dramatic comeback. The key? Keep the spectacle alive, celebrate the small wins, and never let the data stop the rhythm of the grind.