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Exercise and I have a tumultuous relationship. At best, it’s sunshine, roses, and defined triceps; at worst, it’s, in the wise words of Miss Britney Jean Spears, toxic. Here’s how it usually goes: I get really into working out, I go too hard, get burnt out, and then stop exercising for months (or years). Here’s an example: After playing sports my entire life, I got recruited to play soccer in college, which obviously meant working out constantly. At the start of my sophomore year, I decided that, for the sake of my mental health, I was going to quit. For the first time in 19 years, there was no coach yelling at me to do another lap—no real need to exercise at all. I was completely over the idea of physical exertion, so I just…stopped. Unsurprisingly, I gained weight and was completely unhappy, so I embarked on another intense bout of fitness, which eventually led to another break.
In the year since the cycle has continued. A few months ago, as I’m wont to do, I decided that enough was enough and it was time to get back into some sort of workout routine. Not only was I not happy with my body, but I felt down, mentally.
So I set out to do some sort of physical activity every day for two weeks to see if it would make me a happier person and—spoiler alert—it did.
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James' World 2 
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