There’s a special kind of chaos reserved for people like me.
Not the cinematic, slow-motion kind where everything explodes in sequence and someone walks away in sunglasses. No. Mine is messier. Faster. Less choreographed. More… “Everything Everywhere All At Once,” but without the budget and with significantly more admin.
Because when push comes to shove, I don’t change one thing.
I change everything.
Last year didn’t arrive gently. It kicked the door in, rearranged the furniture, and handed me a mirror I’d been politely ignoring for about a decade.
And like any self-respecting, slightly unhinged, high-functioning ADHD adult, I responded in the only way I know how:
By going all in.
No half measures. No easing into it. No “let’s start with a light jog and a salad.”
No. Get up you lazy bastard.
We’re doing fitness. We’re doing discipline. We’re doing systems. We’re doing everything.
Selling My Soul to the Algorithm
Now, as anyone that’s heard me speak or read my content knows, I have a healthy distrust of big data. Which is ironic, considering I make a living swimming in it.
I build funnels. I optimise systems. I literally profit from turning human behaviour into structured, monetisable patterns. And yet, when it comes to my own life, I never trusted it.
Turn out, desperation makes hypocrites of us all.
So I handed over the reins of my physical existence to Discovery Health and went full bore into Vitality.
Tracked. Measured. Nudged. Scored.
I let myself to be gamified like a lab rat with a gym contract.
For the love of Streaks
It started innocently enough. A few workouts. Points accumulated, goals moved up and like a good little soldier I just kept running after them.
Each day that dopamine hit from the app kept telling me I’m a “good boy.”
Then it became a streak…. and streaks… well, streaks are dangerous.
Because streaks don’t care how you feel.
They don’t care if you’re tired, busy, injured, or questioning your life choices at 6:30am in a cold gym parking lot.
They care about showing up. They care about the regime. They only care about continuity.
So I chased it.
10 weeks.
15 weeks.
25 weeks.
At 25 weeks, i got a medal and Discovery gave me a free week off.
Which felt less like a reward and more like a suspiciously well-timed safety net — because, of course, I got sick in week 30something and had to use it.
The algorithm knows. It always knows.
The Non-Event of Achievement
At 50 weeks, I was ready. Not emotionally. Not physically.
Ceremonially.
I expected… something.
Maybe a knock on the door.
A slow clap. Would it be a small brass band led by Dinesh Govender himself?
“Jonathan,” he’d say, hand on my shoulder, “we always believed in you.”
Instead? I got another week off. A new target was set. Go for 75. That was it.
Just me.
A treadmill.
And an app reminding me that I hadn’t hit my weekly goal yet.
The Twist No One Warns You About
Here’s where it gets interesting. Somewhere between week 1 and week 50… something shifted.
Between the forced discipline, the quiet resentment, and the internal negotiations, something clicked.
I felt better.
I don’t mean in a performative, Instagram-caption kind of way. I mean structurally better. System-level improvements. I also understood something I’d missed my whole life.
Routine brings freedom. Applying a routine to almost anything you do will deliver an impact, over time.
Also—small detail—I was about 20kg down.
Twenty.
That’s not a tweak. That’s a bag of rocks i’ve carried for years… shifted off my shoulders, joints and arteries.
And suddenly, the external validation I thought I needed?
Irrelevant. Turns out, when you start liking the person you’re becoming, applause becomes optional.
Diamond Status
Then came the milestone. After 25 years as a customer, I hit Diamond status.
Let me repeat that. Twenty-five years floundering in blue and silver.
Diamond.
A word that implies rarity. Prestige. Access. Maybe even a secret handshake or being whisked to the Discovery Superyacht (I’m sure they have one anchored in Monaco).
What did I get?
No fireworks.
No confetti.
No Adrian Gore emerging from the shadows like a well-dressed guru to praise me personally.
Just… my app telling me “attaboy” and of course, i can get cheaper flights, banking and stuff. Strangely enough, I’m not sure I need the validation anymore.
Week 70 and Counting
Today, I’m sitting at 70 weeks straight of hitting my exercise goals. Seventy.
That’s not just a healthy habit anymore. That’s a lifestyle. I think I’m in a cult of my own now.
At 75 weeks, or maybe it’s reserved for 100, i fully expect, at the very least, the head of risk to arrive personally.
I mean, from a purely actuarial standpoint, I’ve got to be one of their favourite redemption arcs.
Let’s do the math:
- Years of questionable decision-making
- A highlight reel of broken bones, pins and surgeries from doing frankly stupid stuff my wife told me not to.
- Reconstruction surgeries & a knee replacement
- 2 heart attacks (because of course)
Type A personality?
No. This is Type A with DLC.
And yet—here we are. Healthier. Getting lighter. Marginally less of a liability.
You’re welcome, Discovery. You have my info, you know where to send my gift baskets.
PS. I’m trying keto, biltong preferred.
