What makes me want to keep exercising?

When I was a child, PE wasn’t exactly my happy place. I was bullied for the way I looked, so getting changed in front of others, running around in a PE kit and feeling like everyone was looking at you didn’t exactly make exercise feel like something I wanted to do.

And then there was my dad. He tried to encourage me to run with him when I was little, which was lovely in theory. The problem was that my dad was very fit – and, if I’m being completely honest, slightly too keen to demonstrate just how fit he was.

He’d set off running and within seconds he’d be disappearing into the distance while I was somewhere behind, trying desperately to keep up and wondering whether I had somehow been left behind by accident. I wasn’t built for running, I decided and that was that.

The combination of energy, connection, fun and feeling seen.

A great instructor who remembers my name, music that gives me a kick, people I recognise, a class that keeps my easily distracted brain interested, and the feeling that I’ve worked hard without being judged.

Basically, I need a reason to think:

Looking back, I think my belief was built on a fairly flimsy piece of evidence: a small child trying to keep up with her very fit dad. I couldn’t run like him, so I assumed I couldn’t run.

And every attempt seemed to end the same way, Dad disappearing into the distance while I was left behind, red-faced and looking like a tomato. So it’s not surprising that running never became my thing. I think some of those early experiences stay with you.

Only now, I’m not standing in a school changing room worrying about what other children think. I’m standing in a gym worrying about what other people think I look like.

In reality, I know they’re probably far too busy trying to get through the class to be bothered about anyone around them. I know that. But that isn’t what my brain is telling me.

When I walk into a fitness class, I want an instructor who really cares about me at the back of the class.

When I walk into a fitness class, I want an instructor who really cares about me at the back of the class. This is more important to me than anything else. I want my instructor to know me, not my BMI or my weight or whether I can touch my toes. I don’t even care if they’ve forgotten how many reps I did last Tuesday. I want them to remember my name, know my likes, dislikes, know why I’m in their class and what I’m trying to get out of it. If they know me, they’ll know when I’m struggling and encourage me when my brain is telling me I’m not good enough. I don’t need them to analyse me, just to see me.

When someone remembers your name, what you’ve told them or notices that you’ve been working hard, THAT matters. You know they care and that you’re not just another number in a room full of people doing squats, lunges or whatever the exercise is. If you’re going to drag yourself back there the following week, that’s what you need.

Motivation is tricky. Some people respond to military-style shouting, others to gentle encouragement. Me? Getting my attention matters.

If my instructor can make me smile between squats, I’ll keep coming back. If they remember my name, even better. It’s the small things that build motivation. That moment when they say, “Come on, you’ve got this!” and I think, “Actually, maybe I do.”

The best instructors, for me, are the ones who throw something completely random into the class.

You’re halfway through an exercise, your legs are burning, you’re wondering why on earth you thought this was a good idea, and suddenly the instructor starts telling you about their weekend. Or what they’re planning to eat over Easter, or how much chocolate they’re intending to demolish. Or even how they’ve found HRT. I’m suddenly listening because my brain goes, I like that, this person is like me. They’re letting me get a glimpse of their real life. They have weekends where they eat chocolate and fish and chips, and enjoy the odd beer or two. That connection is really quite powerful.

For an easily distracted brain, halfway through an exercise that’s making my muscles ache, suddenly listening to something unexpected, helps me to forget my quads are on fire for a few seconds. And then, somehow, I’m still doing the bloody exercise and that’s the magic that keeps me engaged, and I’m far more likely to want to come back.

I’ve learned that if exercise starts feeling like punishment, I won’t stick with it. I’ve been to some classes where the instructor has clearly gone through the motions. The music is on, but no one is home. The microphone works, and the exercises are happening. Everyone is technically doing what they’re supposed to be doing, but my brain is already planning its great escape. That’s the thing about an easily distracted brain. You can’t simply tell it to concentrate and expect it to cooperate.

I don’t want to spend an hour being made to feel bad about my body so I can earn the right to eat something afterwards and I don’t want every workout to feel like a test. I want to enjoy it, to listen to good music that gives me dopamine. I want to work hard without feeling as though I’m failing.

A great instructor can change the entire atmosphere of a room. They can make you laugh when you’re sweating your mascara off and looking like Alice Cooper. They can make you think, Bloody hell, this is hard… but this is brilliant. That’s what I respond to.

There is so much fitness fodder on Instagram telling us we can exercise from the comfort of our own homes. There was a lot of Instagram fitness content during lockdown telling us how easy it was to exercise at home. Just find a bit of space, press play and get moving.

I gave it a go. Cyrus was sitting on the sofa watching me and, for reasons I still can’t quite explain, I decided that Body Pump was a perfectly sensible thing to attempt in my living room. It wasn’t. Halfway through a move, I managed to bash the radiator hard enough to take a chunk of paint off it. I then tried Body Combat in the kitchen, which was another spectacular misjudgement. My kitchen was not designed for back kicks. There is only so far you can swing your leg when there is a cupboard where your foot wants to go.

It was funny, but it also made me realise that all this talk about exercising in the comfort of your own home rather assumes that your home is suitable for it. Mine wasn’t. And, if I’m honest, I wasn’t good at turning my home into a gym either. With Cyrus on the sofa, the washing somewhere in the background and all the usual distractions around me, I never really got into it.

I actually need to leave the house to exercise. I like walking into a class and knowing that, for the next 45 minutes, that’s what I’m doing. The music is on, the instructor is there, everyone else is doing it and there isn’t a radiator waiting to be attacked. I’m much more likely to get stuck in when I’ve made the effort to go somewhere than when I’ve told myself I’ll just squeeze in a workout at home.

And that’s probably why Instagram has never been the thing that keeps me exercising. I can watch someone doing a beautiful workout in a spotless room with enough space to swing a cat and think, Good for you. It doesn’t make me want to put my trainers on. What does make me want to come back is being in a room with other people, an instructor who brings some energy to it and the feeling that, for those 45 minutes, I’ve actually gone somewhere to do something.

I’d much rather be red-faced, sweaty and laughing with everyone else than trying to do a back kick between the fridge and the kitchen cupboards. My radiator has suffered enough. It also makes me wonder how many other women have discovered that the right fitness environment matters just as much as the workout itself.

One of the things I didn’t expect when I started exercising more regularly was how much I’d come to enjoy the people around me. I’m not necessarily going to the gym because I want to make friends, but there is something quite nice about walking into a class and seeing familiar faces. You start to recognise people, have a laugh with the instructor, complain about how hard the class was, compare notes afterwards and then turn up again the following week. Nobody has to make a big thing of it, but you become part of the furniture.

I think there is something reassuring about being around people who are there for the same reason you are. We’re not all trying to achieve the same thing and we certainly don’t all look the same, but for those 45 minutes we’re all doing it together. Some people are fitter than me, some are stronger, some are probably wondering why I’ve chosen to punch quite so enthusiastically, but none of that really matters. We’re there, we’re having a go and we’re all slightly sweaty by the end of it.

And I like the fact that you can connect with people without needing to know their whole life story. You can have a conversation with someone you’ve only spoken to a handful of times and somehow end up laughing about something completely ridiculous. You might know their name, which classes they like and whether they’re always in the front row, but you don’t necessarily know what they do for a living or what their house looks like or what they’ve got going on outside the gym. You just know them from this little part of your life.

Maybe that’s part of what keeps me coming back. It’s not just the exercise or the instructor or even the way I feel afterwards. It’s knowing there will be people there who I recognise and who recognise me. There is something quite lovely about belonging somewhere, and that’s what I’ve been looking for all along. Not somewhere I have to prove that I’m fit enough, thin enough, strong enough or good enough. Just somewhere I can turn up, do my thing, have a laugh with people who get it and go home feeling like I’ve been part of something.

That makes it a lot easier to come back next week.

When I think about everything I’ve written here, I realise I’m not actually looking for motivation. At least, not in the way we usually talk about motivation. I don’t need someone to convince me that exercise is good for me. I know that. I don’t need to be frightened into doing it, guilt-tripped into doing it or made to feel bad about myself until I put my trainers on.

I need a point.

I need to know why I want to walk through that gym door again next week. Sometimes it’s because I want to get stronger. Other times, I want to work on my fitness or feel better in my clothes. Sometimes I just need to get out of my own head for 45 minutes. And it’s because I know my favourite instructor is going to be there, the music will be bloody brilliant and I’ll probably end up laughing at something while trying not to die during the final track.

It’s the combination that keeps me coming back. The instructor who knows my name. The people I recognise. The music and the energy. The chance to work hard without turning it into a test of whether I’m good enough. That’s the biggest change for me. When I was younger, exercise was tangled up with what I thought my body said about me. Now I can see it as something I get something from. I still want to look better and have things I’d like to change. But that’s no longer the only reason I’m there.

I want an instructor who makes me think, Go on then, let’s have another go. Because I know myself now. If I’m bored, I’ll find something else to do. If I feel judged, I’ll overthink everything. If a class feels like punishment, I’ll start looking for reasons not to go. But give me something that grabs my attention, makes me feel welcome, makes me laugh, pushes me when I need pushing and leaves me thinking, That was bloody brilliant, and I’ll be back.

That’s my answer.

What makes you show up to a gym class? Is it the instructor’s playlist, their energy, or the way they make you feel unstoppable for 45 minutes? Share your thoughts below.

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