In the small, “Friday Night Lights” sort of town that I grew up in, sports were a big deal. Everybody played a sport—because, well, that’s just what kept our insulated suburban world turning. I too followed the beaten path and found myself “playing soccer” and “running track.” Well, if camping out on the bench and getting last place in every event counts as playing a sport, then I was a star player!
Games and meets always left me humiliated—especially because I continually felt compared to all of the other, genuinely athletic girls. When I finally came to terms with the fact that a sports oriented lifestyle wasn’t for me, I swore off athletics. However, I accidentally confused “athletics” with “fitness.”
When I was on my sports teams, even though I wasn’t a valuable player, I still got enough exercise to sustain my physical well-being. When I lost those daily practices and conditioning, I no longer had any form of exercise.
I remember going to the doctor’s office a year after quitting soccer. “You’re 5’ 1’’, 135 pounds. That’s in the 92 percentile. You’re technically at a risk for obesity because of your height.” I was shocked. My doctor highly recommended that I join a gym to begin working out. After displaying how un-athletic I was for years, I was less than thrilled to say the least, but I recognized the necessity and grudgingly agreed.
I forced myself to attend four, half-hour sessions each week. I’d run on the treadmill and do a few sit-ups. As I would hyperventilate on the treadmill, despising anyone in the gym who looked like they were even remotely enjoying life, the only thing running through my mind was: “What kind of psychotic, self-loathing people actually run for fun?! That’s like basically sadism.” It was an absurd notion. Running for fun. Or just working out for fun in general. Now, I’ve seen it all.
Frustrated beyond belief and wholly unmotivated to continue boring gym workouts, I had made up my mind to cancel my gym membership—when a trainer recommended that I take a group exercise class. So, I dragged myself to a spinning class, huffing and puffing furiously the whole way. But even though I was in pain I was…having fun?
I switched out my mundane gym workouts with 1-hour spinning classes Monday-Friday. I was hooked. After consistently going for 6-months, I had one of the highest endurance levels in the class. In the process, I shed 15 pounds and gained a lot of muscle. (3 years since this moment, I’m actually in the process of becoming a certified spinning instructor). I was the most confident I’d ever been and began taking other classes like Boot-camp, boxing, and Insanity. From flipping tires to box jumps to bench pressing, I became obsessed with the things my tiny body could do! I competed (and won) a wounded warrior challenge. I even ran in the Navy Seal Obstacle Race, “BattleFrog.” I found myself at the peak of my physical fitness, having never been more confident or clear-headed in my life. Fitness gave me so much more than just losing a few unwanted pounds—it gave me happiness. I never felt like I truly belonged in the competitive environment of my old sports teams, but I genuinely felt at home in my fitness classes.
My fitness journey made me more aware about what I was eating too. I used to think eating was all about the calories, but in reality, it’s all about portions. Want ice cream? Have it! Craving pizza? Have a slice, even two, maybe three. Everything is about balance. Extreme dieting and working out just don’t go together. You need food and rest to get the most out of your workout.
Since I’ve started my freshman year, I’m definitely not as in-shape as I was when I competed in my BattleFrog. I’ve also gone from 110 pounds to 117 pounds. But the main thing I’ve learned throughout this journey is that weight doesn’t define fitness level, nor does hand-eye coordination or speed or agility, or any other of those elusive genetic gifts that tend to make someone “athletic” in a traditional sense. Anyone can attain a healthy lifestyle—it’s all about finding the exercise environment that works for you.