About going to the gym and other insecurities

Last year my partner and I had a difficult realization. Our bodies are getting older and heavier, and if we ignored that, it would eventually become a real problem. A reminder from a doctor pushed us to the edge of that fear and we decided to join a gym.

That decision alone felt like an achievement. Building self-discipline, even as adults, is not easy. Especially when it involves moving our bodies after years of not doing much. Somehow, with all the energy in the world, we signed up. It might have been one of the most difficult goals we achieved as a couple.

But the real challenge began after we got the membership.

Starting from scratch in our mid-30s felt unimaginable. It wasn’t just about physical strength; it was about mental strength. It was about being a beginner again. About learning things that look simple when others do them. About being surrounded by young, athletic bodies and feeling like the oldest person in the room. It was about relearning how to be an amateur and being corrected by people younger than you. It hit my ego more than my muscles.

 
At times, it felt sad to be paying for something as basic as self-discipline. Paying to force yourself to move. Paying to take care of your own body.

When you step into the gym, it’s like becoming hyper-aware of your own existence. Suddenly, you feel visible in a way you didn’t ask to be. You feel like people are watching you, judging you for being overweight, noticing how out of place you are. I thought I could sense it in the instructors’ words or in their expressions. And I was embarrassed.

 
But maybe that was all in my head. A gym is full of people trying to fix something about themselves. Surely they have their own insecurities to focus on.

 
During workouts, I found myself observing the younger crowd. The boys staring at their reflections, flexing their muscles between sets. The girls turning sideways, checking how their bodies look from different angles. The constant glancing into mirrors. I used to think self-image wasn’t an issue for me. Yet somehow, being in that environment made it one. The mirrors made everything louder. That level of self-consciousness was exhausting.

And the mirrors are everywhere. Between sets, there is nowhere neutral to look. You either stare at your own reflection or accidentally lock eyes with someone mid-squat. Neither feels correct. Thinking about it now, I realize the mirrors didn’t just reflect my body. They reflected my insecurities and my ego.

It’s been a few months. The progress is slow, and we’ve accepted that it will remain slow. 

But something has shifted. 

 The gym stopped feeling like a stage where I was being judged. It became a place where I coexist with strangers without needing to connect with them. We share the same space for an hour. We lift, stretch, breathe, stare at our reflections. And then we leave, carrying nothing of each other with us. 

 For someone like me, someone who likes to make connections wherever I spend time, that was uncomfortable at first. On one of the days, I fussed about not being able to make any friends at the gym, my partner looked at me and said, “It’s a gym. Don’t expect them to act like your workmates.” That realization hit me harder than the dumbbells. Not every place needs a part of my personality. 

 You might say I think too much. And maybe I do. But thinking and trying to make sense of my experiences is part of who I am. This gym didn’t change that. It just gave me more to think about.