My workout tracking app tells me that it has been 33 weeks of going to the gym. This is the most documentation I have of how this year has been going for me—less talk, more movement. I have managed to finally semi-abandon my Twitter, keeping myself from jumping right into the next meaningless discourse, replacing the urge with the act of testing the limits of my physical strength, overwriting the doomscroll reflex with something more useful for when the world goes down in flames. Somewhere along the way, a gym bro has possessed me, and I have learned to quiet the noise by flexing at any reflective surface, never mind if my biceps barely show the amount of effort I have exerted in the last year and a half.
While I have grown more obsessed with working out, there is more discipline in indulging my own vanity. Yes, I still would like to have the physique of leanbeefpatty, but I am content knowing that it will take time. It’s not the only thing I’m after anymore, as there are little wonders in the gym that distract me enough to remember how long it might actually take. Clearly, this shift in perspective is what I attribute to my Jogging Baboon moment, to doing this every day (or at least trying to), even if I end up realizing over and over that it will not get easier from here. This is the most devoted I have ever been, the most myself I have ever felt, and I am only slightly delighted that this is a part of my life that I cannot easily give up anymore. Who would have thought that it would only take 12 years of trial and error?
The gains have been immaculate. I feel much stronger, more comfortable in how much space my body asks for me to take up. When I hold a high plank, I can gracefully descend to the floor without my elbows flaring, and I can get back up without breaking a sweat. I am now a stranger to the struggle of kneeling push ups. My current progression involves this big, purple yoga ball in the gym, where I have to stabilize my feet on top of the moving ball, and then get into a plank position. Last year, just the act of getting on top of the yoga ball took an entire session for me to get the hang of, and I was so close to tears that even my coach could see how frustrated I’d gotten, but I still managed to balance myself on the ball for about 30 seconds, my sweat creating a puddle. It took failing multiple times, trying so hard, just to get one proper form.
What’s been pissing me off as of late is my pistol squats. I’m nowhere near the real form where my leg is straightened and I squat with one leg, so I’m a bit embarrassed to call it that, because my progression involves a bent leg with the intention of brushing the knee to the floor for a bit, and ascending more explosively. I still have about two plates under this supported leg, and these past few months I’d been dreading this particular workout because I felt wonky and I tend not to brace enough that my knee ends up slamming the floor. I didn’t like how long it was taking for me to fail before I got it right.
Turns out the answer to my worries was in my new favorite podcast, Ologies with Alie Ward. I recently listened to the episode on sports psychology, where sports and performance psychologist Dr. Sari Shepphird discussed all the ways to overcome problems with performing, typically in sports. The entire episode was a joy to listen to, making me realize that anxiety is just confidence we do not know how to tame just yet. But what stood out to me was a study that she’d cited, how there were participants who were asked to say that they were so excited to do a particular exercise (or performance) before they actually did it, and as opposed to participants who did not say that they were excited, the former performed more efficiently than the others.
So I put it to the test.
When the workout of the day included pistol squats, I tried to be excited about it, even if I knew that I was dreading it. I’m so excited, I’m very excited, I’m excited to actually progress! I kept this mantra playing in my head, right until the setup was complete. In my descent, however, I plopped to the floor, devastated that I was an exception to the rule. I tried again, didn’t work. And again, nothing.
Then it hit me: maybe it’s not that I have to feign excitement. Maybe I have to admit that I’m scared shitless—of failing, of not doing it properly, of staying the same—and proceed with the attempt anyway. I’m not excited, I actually dread this workout, but I will try anyway. I will do it scared. And boom, baby. I finally managed to ascend like my coach had set as a goal this cycle.
The bad news is that you might not stop feeling scared. You might not ever live this lifetime avoiding fear. Maybe you will always feel this way before you do anything at all. But feeling afraid means that you care, that something in your life matters, and in spite of the dread, there are things worth trying. So much of my little joys, both in and out of the gym, have been about accepting that I might always be a little too terrified for my own liking, but that I should try regardless. Whatever the outcome, I still fall forward.
