My Gym Is More Than a Workout: Finding Healing Beyond Burpees

I’ll be honest, I’ve got a little gym PTSD.

When I walked back into my athletic roots about twelve years ago, I wasn’t striding in strong. I was dragging myself in—head down, tail between my legs.

I’d been momming so hard.
Working a job I loved that didn’t love me back.
Performing at a breakneck pace as wife, daughter, sister, friend.

It had been a long time since I’d done anything for myself—especially not for my body.

And my body?
I’d cursed her.
Fed her garbage.
Overworked her.
Starved her.
Called her names.
Pinched, poked, squeezed her into jeans that wouldn’t fit a twelve-year-old.

I had done everything to her but one thing:
I had never loved her.
Not as-is.
Not at her thickest, her thinnest, or her just-rightness.

So I tried something different.

My first gym was intoxicating—like a drug.
But it demanded far more than a workout.
Daily check-ins.
Social media posts.
Food logging, planning, prepping, obsessing.
Being chastised by a twenty-something for a glass of wine or a plate of carbonara.

Meanwhile, life was still happening—kids, laundry, football cleats, bedtime stories, the never-ending list.

We were infatuated with trainers who had never coached someone with back fat and a mortgage.
We dropped pounds and we thought we’d built a “fit family.”

But when someone strayed, the cracks showed.
The “love” wasn’t unconditional.

We learned the hard way what conditional love looks like—even inside a gym.
And while we adored our sleek new bodies, we hated what it cost us to get them.

What do I ask for now, twelve years and four gyms later?
Here’s what I really want:

Not obsession.
Not conditional belonging.
Not “you’re only valuable if you check in, post, count, compete.”

I want realness.
I want care that doesn’t disappear when my kid is struggling, or work gets crazy, or my body needs rest.

Because I—and so many of us—know the pain of being discarded by a system that valued performance over people.

Today, I watched a gym friend work her ass off. KT tape on, sweat pouring, both of us pushing past limits. We laughed at our sore legs, bonded in that ridiculous “I’ll go too far if you do” drive we both carry.

And when I left, I said, “I love you.”
She looked surprised, but it was true.

Not “I love you because we hang out or because I know your kids’ names.”
But because:
I see you.
I get you.
I am you.

And for a moment, that’s enough.

It’s more than a workout.

A gym—the right gym, with the right people—becomes more than burpees and barbells.
It’s where the members create the culture.
Where we lend a hand and accept a hand.
Where we cheer and cry and carry each other, even in small, sweaty ways.

And when it’s led by people who care more about your growth than their algorithms?

That’s not just a gym.
That’s fellowship.
That’s healing.
That’s love.

My friend… your gym should be more than a workout.

And if you used to work out but lost it?
Come back. We love you. We want you with us.

If you enjoyed this post, join my inner circle of people on a mission to design a life they don’t need to escape from!