How to Embrace Looking Stupid at the Gym by Juliane Bergmann
The Single Pull-Up Challenge Series: Part 2
I collapse into a sweaty heap onto the weight plate — lungs burning, shirt riding up my back, hair matted to my face. I can’t push another inch. Feeling self-conscious while simultaneously realizing my physical limits and hitting a mental wall makes my eyes well with angry tears.
Embracing my after workout “glow.”
I’d love to lie and tell you I didn’t start weightlifting sooner because I had good reasons (kids, work, money!). But the truth of my recovering perfectionist ego is that I didn’t want to look stupid. I like doing things well and love making it look easy. Twelve years of classical ballet trained me to accept nothing less than accomplishing insane physical feats, all while plastering a serene smile on my face. There’s neither grace nor beauty in pushing a weight plate those last brutal yards with my ass in the air and sweat blinding me.
When I was 16, my favorite uncle told me: “Boys sweat, girls glow.”
He couldn’t have been more wrong.
After every workout, I wonder why I look like I’ve been competing in the Hunger Games while other people can still hold a conversation with not a hair out of place. It was only the fear of being unable to do normal activities due to my lingering knee injury that tipped the balance in favor of showing up to my first weightlifting class.
I was self-conscious at first. I grew up believing how I looked was more important than how I felt. I never left the house without makeup before, but now I had gym first thing in the morning. Do you know how long it took me to talk myself out of the ridiculous idea of taking a shower and getting ready, then sweating it all off at the gym, only to go home for a second shower?
Way too long.
I didn’t know how to set up my bar or add weights. I couldn’t keep up. Aside from falling off the rower the first time, I’ve hit myself in the face with dumbbells, dropped a weight plate on my foot, showed up wearing my shirt inside out, and tripped over a weight bench.
I still sometimes have flashbacks to high school gym class, kids calling me fat, not wanting me on their team, or snickering at my lack of hand-eye coordination. I feel silly writing this as if it shouldn’t bother me anymore, but it’s a major reason I was scared to walk through the gym doors as an adult.
I’ve slowly realized that at this gym, trying hard is the point, not looking cool while doing it. “Stop looking in the mirror!” Hef had yelled at the class setting up for deadlifts during one of my first sessions. “You’ll just strain your necks, heads down!” This morning, though, I wanted to be cool and deadlifted too much weight on my last set. I felt it all in my back when ripping up the bar. I still felt a tiny bit cool, until I saw Mike’s death stare. “That was all bad,” he announced, arms folded.
If you crossed an inspirational Pinterest post with RBF, you’d get Mike. It makes sense, considering he coaches youth soccer. For fun. Every coach at the gym has a different style. When I feel stupid because I can’t keep up (which makes me do stupid things like lift too much weight), Mike is my go-to.
Those violently shaking arms will soon be strong enough for that first pull-up.
He always asks me how it feels rather than worrying about what it looks like on the outside. The first few weeks, I was confused because I figured my outsides clearly showed how I felt. “How did that squat feel? How did that press feel?” Like I’m dying, Mike. He just cackles maniacally and fist-bumps me. He gives tiny corrections that help me use the targeted muscles while protecting my back. Then he high-fives me, yelling: “You’re crushing it!” when I’m absolutely not crushing it.
A few days ago, he crouched down next to me on my last set of push-ups: “I love how your arms are shaking so violently.” A few weeks ago, I struggled with a kettle ball overhead press. I knew I was making Hulk face without looking in the mirror. “That’s the correct face,” he said. “It means you’re using the right weight.”
When I complain that it’s not getting any easier, he channels Ted Lasso: “It will never get easier, but you will get stronger.” This place that I’d been so afraid of walking into because I thought it would matter how I looked and how much I struggled has turned out to be the spot where I focus on my experience rather than my appearance.
After an especially grueling workout, including an outrageous number of Hungarian split squats, Mike asks again.
“Best I’ve ever felt,” I respond without thinking, still out of breath, and wiping the sweat from my hot cheeks.
And I’m surprised to realize it’s the truth.
Juliane Bergmann is a technical writer for Montana State University, the Department of Defense, and the Department of Veterans Affairs. As a book coach, ghostwriter, and editor, she’s guided nine first-time authors through the ideation and creation of their non-fiction books spanning memoir, entrepreneurship, business development, psychedelics, healthcare, IT, immigration, coaching, and leadership.
Juliane’s work has appeared in: Mamalode, The Writing Cooperative, CRY Magazine, A Parent Is Born, The Bozeman Daily Chronicle, and The Scarlett Letter. She was named a semi-finalist in the 2021 Medium Writing Challenge for her essay How To Become A More Selfish Parent.
Juliane offers free writing resources at https://julianebergmann.ghost.io/
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