It wasn’t supposed to be this way. And I definitely didn’t expect it to be emotional.
Some people dread going to the gym. Not me.
The gym has always been my sanctuary. It’s where I go to work out my frustrations on the weights while I build muscle. Where I work through the things weighing on my mind while strengthening my heart with cardio.
The gym is my people. When I moved to Chicago without knowing anyone, I made friends at the gym. When I moved back to Indiana, I made friends at the gym there. Most of the people I dated were men I’d met at the gym.
The gym is my last resort. Even when I lost my job and could barely afford to feed myself and my daughter, I held on to my $10 a month membership to the gym, because it kept me sane after a long day spent pushing out my resume.
The gym is even a part of my career — I developed a niche in fitness writing, and it paid a fair number of bills while I was looking for a new job.
“The gym” has been more than a dozen places in four different states, but it’s always been a safe space where I could be my perfect brand of ambivert: alone, but surrounded by lots of energy and people. I’ve always loved the music, the clanging of weights, the smell of rubber mats. It makes me happy to walk in the door, because I know how…
