I don’t know how to talk about the gym without talking about grief.
Or shame.
Or the quiet ache of never quite arriving.
It’s been with me longer than most things.
Longer than love.
Longer than business.
Longer than safety.
It’s held every version of me—every breakdown, every breakthrough, every night I stayed too long trying to outrun the feeling that I wasn’t enough.
It’s where I’ve felt the most powerful and the most ashamed.
It’s where I’ve built strength I didn’t know I had, and where I’ve punished myself for not being someone else.
There were years I trained for hours—three, four, sometimes more.
I’d leave drenched in sweat, muscles shaking, heart racing.
People would call it dedication.
They’d say I was inspiring.
But I knew the truth.
I was trying to disappear.
Trying to earn a body that felt like mine.
Trying to make myself as small as possible so maybe I’d finally be allowed to take up space.
I’d take the mirror selfie.
And hate it.
Every time.
Even now, after all the healing, all the reframing, all the work—I still feel like I’m living in someone else’s body.
Like I’m borrowing a life that doesn’t quite fit.
My body is healthy.
It’s strong.
It shows up for me every day.
And still, I feel betrayed by it.
Not because it’s wrong.
But because I was taught it should be different.
I look at women who’ve made peace with themselves.
Women who take up space without apology.
Women who don’t flinch when they see their reflection.
And I ache.
I want that.
I want to feel like I belong in my own skin.
I want to stop performing wellness and start feeling it.
I’ve built a practice that models safety.
I’ve created a space where women and LGBTQ+ adults can move without shame.
I know how to hold others in their truth.
But holding myself? That’s still the hardest part.
This isn’t a transformation story.
It’s not a redemption arc.
It’s just me.
Still learning how to love the gym without losing myself in it.
Still learning how to love my body without needing it to change first.
If you’re reading this and you feel it too—just know you’re not alone.
We’re not broken.
We’re just trying to come home to ourselves.
