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In my final year of university, I found myself a personal trainer, determined to put muscles on my skeletal arms. By then I was living just behind the Hayward Gallery on London’s South Bank.

Early morning, often before dawn, he’d call me down from my flat for one of two exercise routines: a loop around both banks of the Thames, or a 3.5 mile jog nearly in a straight line all the way up to Primrose Hill in Camden and back again.

The loop carried us past the National Theatre, the Oxo Tower, Shakespeare’s Globe and through a maze of cobbled streets to London Bridge, where we’d cross the Thames for the journey through the City, Fleet Street, Temple and the Strand, before making it back across Waterloo Bridge.

That was if I was feeling lazy. His preferred venue was Primrose Hill, to make use of its outdoor workout park. If anything would put muscles on my arms, he thought, that was it. His exercise routine for me was unforgiving: push ups, sit ups, parallel bars, pull ups, swinging on monkey bars. All the ingredients of what would nowadays be called a calisthenics workout.

Except for the obvious: I had no muscles at all, so could barely lift my own body weight, let alone imitate my athletic trainer. Still, he was having none of it, and would finish each session with a race to the top of the hill, to take in the spectacular view of the sun rising over London’s skyline. At least, while it lasted. For soon enough he would have to conclude that I was a lost cause.

He’d had me on all manner of high protein shakes and supplements, supposed to increased me in muscle mass and bulk. But nothing seemed to help. I remained the skeleton, weak and lethargic. It didn’t seem to make sense: he could see the effort I was putting in, for zero gain. He and everyone who knew me had every right to think that there was something wrong with me.

Once while out with friends in Finsbury Park, they challenged one another to a race around the athletics track. Without much warning, we were all lined up in a row. But no sooner had somebody cried Go! they had hurtled off at great speed, leaving me in the dust. I just couldn’t keep up, and indeed nearly collapsed, puking my guts on the grass.

Yep, there was definitely something wrong with me. I was even weaker than I thought I was and so slow. But what was it? What was the problem? Was I just lazy? That seemed like a reasonable conclusion to reach, as it was the explanation that had accompanied throughout my youth. Was I just not making the effort? Did I lack persistence? If I simply made more effort, could I change everything?

It would be another five years before I’d get something close to an answer. I’d carry my scrawny frame through a Masters degree, job interviews and temporary work, forever self-conscious about my looks, unable to account for the way I was. Why was it, I often wondered, that I still looked like a teenager even in my mid-twenties? I hated how and what I was.

My wrists were not much broader than the bones within: they’re not like a man’s wrists. My feet stopped growing when I was about fourteen; already, our kids have bigger feet than me. My torso had no meat on it at all, my rib cage poking through my skin, though two decades of good home-cooked Turkish tucker has thankfully changed this. And my face: it was hard to look in the mirror.

Who would believe such an infinitesimal quantity of an organic chemical compound could have such far reaching effects on our entire sense of self? It turns out that its absence has an impact on nearly everything, from cognitive ability to muscle density to bone strength to heart health. A belated realisation, observing my arms in the bathroom mirror this morning.

Yes, for despite a fairly sedentary lifestyle, there are now biceps where once there was only skin and bone. Despite an exercise routine consisting of little more than mowing the lawn, the odd DIY job and a weekly walk, I am surprised to find my muscles developing natural tone. This the effect of finally addressing deficits with regular interventions, for the first time in over fifteen years.

My face, bearded and aged, less grotesque a mask to wear. My mind sharper, less foggy. My intellect more precise. My stamina increased. Confidence rising. All this a result of that infinitesimal compound, now coursing through my veins. If I had understood why it’s so important, I would have taken these interventions more seriously sooner. Instead it took a mammoth crash in my mood to bring me back to normality.

Thank God — and I really mean this — for that infinitesimal compound.