I’ve always had a complicated relationship with exercise.

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.

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.

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 my easily distracted brain, hearing something unexpected halfway through an exercise helps me forget that my quads are on fire for a few seconds.

And somehow, I’m still doing the bloody exercise.

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.

During lockdown, Instagram made exercising at home look remarkably straightforward. 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 Les Mills 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 Les Mills 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I want an instructor who makes me think, Go on then, let’s have another go.

Because I know myself now.

Bore me and I’ll wander off mentally. Judge me and I’ll overthink everything. Make exercise feel like punishment and I’ll find reasons not to go.

But give me music, energy, people I recognise, an instructor who knows my name and 45 minutes in which I can get out of my own head, and I’ll come back.

What actually makes you want to go back?

What actually makes you want to go back to a class? Is it the workout, the music, the instructor, the people, or simply how you feel when you’re there?

And have you ever stopped exercising because the environment, rather than the exercise itself, wasn’t right for you?