CrossFit Week 1 - Pay My Dues
- Ken Daniels
- 2 days ago
- 7 min read
It’s been 70 days since everything changed.
Since the sucker punch. The Valentine’s Day massacre that marked the moment diabetes stopped being something I managed—and came to collect it's debt paid only by flesh.
My left eye. Gone. Cranial nerve VI palsy. Double vision. Depth perception thrown out the goddamn window. Telling your body to move your eye and its paralyzed.
Try walking down the street when your brain can’t sync the world in front of you. It’s like living inside a fucking nightmare. Get cozy with an eye patch, this is your new normal. Trust me, nothing looks the same after that.
Doctors tell me it might heal. Twelve weeks. Six months. Or never. Who knows? But this isn’t a sob story. This is a war journal. Because diabetes isn’t about “bad habits” and Pinterest meal plans. It’s about loss.
Real loss.
You lose hours. Energy. Your edge. Your fire. Your eyes. Your confidence. Your goddamn sense of who you are. It’s not “failure”—it’s grief, slow and methodical. And I’m done pretending it’s not.
So I’ve been fighting. Walking. Rowing. Logging every blood glucose number like it’s life or death. Under 50 carbs a day. No sugar. No seed oils. No processed food. No “treats.” Not one bite. Not to prove anything. Just to live.
But I hit a wall. After 70 days of consistent, honest change, I was flatlining. I needed a new villain. A dragon to slay. And my greatest enemy was still waiting for me; my doppelganger. The weaker voice that has been in charge too long. I've avoided him for years. I was fighting alone and that needed to change.
So I called Andy.
Andy McCann. Gym owner. CrossFit savage. One of the sharpest men I know. We serve on the same Expert Council for a well-known podcast. Met last year but I kept my distance. Not because of anything he said—but because of what he represented.
Health. Consistency. Energy. Encouragement.
All the things I wasn’t ready to face.
He never judged me. Never said a word. But just seeing him in my feed, thriving, pushing, living the life I was too damn lazy to chase—it was enough. So I avoided him. Because sometimes the mirror isn’t a reflection. It’s a man who lives the way you know you should.
Turns out, Andy is exactly the kind of man you want in your corner. The kind who doesn’t need fanfare to lead. Quiet strength. Zero ego. He bleeds with you. He checks in. He shows up—even from hundreds of miles away. His CrossFit gym (CrossFit Garage) is in Georgia but his presence has been here, every day. And that’s rare as hell.
He reminded me—without preaching—that the people around you matter. You need a tribe. You need real ones. The kind who don’t flinch when things get dark.
I took Easter off—first real break in 70 days. Let myself breathe without guilt. I've worked my ass off. But my blood sugar exploded past 250 all weekend. Apparently, my body missed the suffering and it was not happy.
You can cry all you want, this is happening.
Monday?
It was time to be reborn, again. I found Einhorn Training in New Braunfels, TX
I felt like trash. Toll on the body from the high glucose numbers and my eye was weak. Still, I got up. Kissed my wife. Ate cold ribeye with my bare hands. Slammed electrolytes. Walked into Einhorn Training for the first time.
I’ve really never stepped into any gym before. I expected meatheads and mirrors.
What I got was something closer to church. Like being there would save me.
It didn’t reek of ego. It had this unspoken warmth—like everyone believed in something more than aesthetics. Call it community. Call it presence. Maybe it was the Holy Spirit, hiding between the kettlebells and chalk dust. Whatever it was, it was real.
Taylor and Grant greeted me. Taylor, especially—she had that steel-eyed intensity, but somehow made it feel safe. She could probably run a boardroom, birth a child, and lead troops into battle without changing her tone. She didn’t pity me. She offered a warm-up. A bike. A space. Un-earned respect.
Five minutes later, I was on the floor, fighting myself. Fighting the part of me that got soft. That ignored the numbers. That let diabetes win a few too many rounds.
That guy had to die.
Taylor adjusted the workout quietly, respectfully. Didn’t coddle. Didn’t correct loudly. Just helped. Led. And when I hit the wall, she didn’t let me crash.
That first day wrecked me. But I left spiritually on fire.
Tuesday
Do you know how many little muscles all over your body can be sore all at the same time?
Wednesday
Jeremy led that class. New trainer at the gym. Total CrossFit bro aesthetic. Back in the day, I would’ve roasted him without mercy— You know the type, gifted athlete, probably has a “wicked” supplement stack, brags on his PRs, meal preps his quinoa with a side of moral superiority.
But here’s the twist—Jeremy’s fucking legit.
No ego. No barking orders. Just this steady, grounded presence that sees you grinding and meets you where you are. He didn’t treat me like the fat guy trying to find his dignity under a barbell. He treated me like someone who showed up to do work—and that brought me to genuine tears. He is remarkably human.
I came in ready to hate him or his type. I blame it on the inner, angry fat kid. I was wrong. Now, I left hoping he teaches every damn class I'm in. Thank you, Jeremy.
I've been a cynical fool about the fitness community for too long.
And without a doubt, I'm sure there are some steroid fueled douchebags in the CrossFit community but I haven't met one yet. Trust me, I'll always make fun of those assholes..
Anyway, Wednesday we ran. 400 meters, over and over. There’s a slight incline on the road outside the gym. You don’t see it, but your legs sure as hell do. Combined that with overhead squats—my legs were toast, my soul was medium-rare. Heart rate hit 187.
Probably not great. But it dropped quickly. I survived.
Later that day, I met Abby. Registered dietitian. Type A Personality. Smart. Not just smart, she had that mix of charisma and intelligence that inspires. Handling her energetic kid while still absolutely focused on me. When she spoke to me, she was present. She was in the moment, she wasn't waiting to respond. I handed her 60 days of data like it was a forensic report. I told her something’s off—hormones, glucose, cortisol chaos—not carbs, not diet, not exercise. And instead of gaslighting me like half the medical community has, she admitted she didn’t have the answers.
She didn’t know much about keto or carnivore, either. But she didn’t pretend. She said, “If you want to do it, I'll learn about it.” That hit deep. That kind of humility is rare. Especially in a world that’s always trying to be right instead of helpful. Abby is a fucking rockstar. She has given me hope. And right now, I need hope. The world needs more people like Abby.
Thursday Recovery Day
I tweaked my supplement stack. Started loading up on collagen at night with magnesium, Omega-3s, and D3 + some fat for better absorption. Glucose numbers were still high but it will take time, I hope. Sleep improved tremendously. Woke up feeling human, like I actually rested.
This is my new standard of luxury.
Friday
Morning Pre-WOD ritual: 24 ounces H20 + electrolytes, one egg, two scoops of a not-great whey protein with amino acids (I'm sure Abby will fix this). Headed in with Jeremy again.
"Oh God.. It's happening, I'm starting to sound like a CrossFit cultist…WTF is happening to me?"
Anyway, we hit the Farmer's Carry. I don’t know what I was carrying—just that it hurt. A hundred meters of grip torture. Then came a handstand walk. WTF? Jeremy subbed an overhead kettlebell walk. No shame. Just crushing effort and sweat.
Then came some carnival freakshow of a burpee-pull-up spin move. Looked like some bizzarro American Ninja Warrior move. Jeremy modified it to a burpee jump-and-touch. Barely survived. But it was enough.
Sidenote: Whomever invented the burpee deserves a special place in hell.
That’s when I saw Courtney.
Ten years in the game. A nurse. A mom. Built like a warrior but moved like a gymnast. She did the full handstand walk. Nailed the burpee “Cirque du Soleil” “Double Twist, Double Layout” spin thing like she was born in a circus. And her daughter was in the damn class, working just as hard.
But the moment that broke me wide open?
It wasn’t just Courtney. It was everyone. Every single day this week.
Every single person in that room was wrecked. Gassed. Drenched in sweat. Pushing through pain. Just like me. It didn’t matter if they’d been doing this for ten years or ten days—we were all in the trenches together.
That’s when it hit me.
This isn’t about beginners versus elite. We’re all fighting something invisible—grief,, depression, illness, disease, doubt, guilt, death.
Everybody’s carrying a devil on their shoulder and racing against their own clock.
And the best ones? They don’t just show up and suffer—they rise.
Like Courtney—finishing the workout, then heading to the hospital to save lives.
Or the moms grabbing two car seats in one hand, kid on the hip, still dripping sweat from the grind they just survived.
Or the quiet ones—barely catching their breath—but somehow still finding enough to throw "the new guy" a nod, a word of encouragement, a reminder that I’m not alone.
That’s not fitness. That’s a damn sermon. And in that moment, I felt humbled in a way I haven’t in years.
Because there are no excuses here. Only the work. And the people beside you, giving everything they’ve got.
I realized—I want to be around people like that. People who push and bleed and hustle before the world even wakes up.
"I don’t want this to get easier."
Because “easy” is what got me here.
“Easy” let me ignore the warning signs.
“Easy” nearly stole my sight.
And I swear to God, I’m done with easy.
Now?
I pay my dues.
And they’re not in cash. They’re in sweat. Pain. Showing up. Tears. Soreness. Locking eyes with your own weakness and saying, you’re not in control anymore.
This week nearly broke me. And I’m grateful.
Because the old me—the one who made excuses, who numbed out, who quietly waited for things to get worse, who almost took my fucking vision—is dying.
And the man crawling out of that grave?
He’s not here to lose. Not anymore.