I immensely enjoy being physically strong. And I don’t know exactly why. Surely a large part of it is pure vanity, status, and social signaling. But I think there might be other, more wholesome, sources of my joy of strength.

For example, I helped my grandfather take a bath last week. It takes an unintuitive amount strength to move an immobile person. Afterwards, he said to me “I wouldn’t have done that with anyone but you. I’m not sure anyone else strong enough”.

Perhaps it is, in part, this different type of joy – one that comes from the capacity to aid through tiny acts of strength – that has me doing squat-thrust, dead-lifts, bench-press, pull-ups, and turkish get-ups.