I used to always hear lies from gym bros about how the gym “changed their life” and that it gave them a newfound source of discipline, motivation, confidence, and happiness. I always laughed and wondered why punishing yourself physically would make you feel better mentally because it sounded like it would make you more miserable.
I did the bare minimum to keep myself physically fit at that time. Anything physical made me sweat, and I hated to sweat. I still do, actually, but that’s another story. The idea of going to the gym regularly sounded equivalent to doing homework for fun – it just didn’t make sense to me.
However, life changed. I became a freshman in college with a whole multitude of anxieties I never had before and to be perfectly honest, I didn’t know how to handle them. I went to the gym occasionally throughout high school (unwillingly) with my parents, so when I had access to one regularly throughout college, I decided to go on a whim, willing to do anything to take my mind off my ever-present anxiety. Every mental health check-in email I got from school mentioned regular physical activity as a way to promote better mental health, so the gym seemed like a reasonable option for me to try. But still, I went in with no expectations of a miracle, because lifting weights didn’t seem like it would be very therapeutic.
At first, going was stressful – there were so many athletic people around me and I felt inexperienced around them. I worried that people were watching me clumsily figure out how each machine worked and what weight suited my strength at that moment. I felt that my really light weights were embarrassing because the guy next to me was bench pressing more than my body weight.
Even though it was stressful, I kept telling myself to go. I told myself to spend just one hour a day and three days a week lifting weights as a distraction. I woke up early (6:30, yikes!) even if my classes started later, purposely making the gym the first thing I did each morning so I had no excuse not to go later.
Eventually, one month of going to the gym became two.
Two became three.
Three became four.
By the time month six came along, my mom told me that I looked different – but good different. I wasn’t intentionally trying to change my body because I primarily worked out for my mental health, but I ended up developing a little bit of visible muscle, something I never imagined would happen to me.
But it wasn’t just that I looked different physically – I was different mentally as well. I felt happier. Whenever I knew I was going to the gym, I was excited. After workouts at the gym, I felt bright and full of energy. Once I adjusted and realized no one cared what I was doing, the gym became a place where I didn’t think about anything outside the gym. The gym became a safety bubble, an impenetrable barrier temporarily isolating me from my problems.
Those few hours a week being present with myself did wonders for my mental health. I began waking up and going to bed early at the same time every day, going phone-free more often to be more present in my life, sleeping better than before, and eating food that made me feel more energized throughout the day. I gathered so much more confidence in myself because of the amount of strength I developed over time.
I became a changed person. I did become more disciplined, motivated, confident, and happy, as all the gym bros say.