Why I’m walking away from the gym in midlife

For the past few months, I’ve been having thoughts that feel almost scandalous in my little world of fitness. Thoughts like: Maybe I should just give up the gym. Yes, me, a woman in her late forties, who ‘was’ attending four midweek classes, and three back-to-back fitness classes every Saturday and Sunday, seriously considering abandoning it all.

The cold, dark reality

Part of it is the cold that hits from September onwards. Not the kind of winter that makes you look cute and layered like a ski trip advert, but the kind that makes your fingers numb, and turns dark evenings into a sneaky trap where motivation goes to die. I get home from work and the thought of driving to the gym feels like climbing Mount Everest in flip-flops. I know that once I’m there though, the music and movement will keep my brain alive, but the struggle to get there some days is pretty insane. What I do when I feel like this is think back to lockdown, when we were forced to exercise in a leaky marquee on sodden, squelchy gyms mat, kitted out in gloves and hats because the rain, hail and snow all made an appearance too.

When your brain becomes your biggest opponent

Then there’s the illness factor. Nothing dramatic, just a persistent low-level malaise that’s made me rethink every decision lately. I used to pride myself on consistency, on showing up, on pretending my body was younger and tougher than it is. But lately, it’s like my brain has become a cheeky saboteur whispering: “You don’t have to go today. Or tomorrow. Or next week.” Even a new pair of trainers hasn’t helped. New gym wear usually does the trick!

The timetable changes…

Then there’s also something unimaginable about a consistent gym timetable being reshuffled. Even when there’s a perfectly valid reason for the change, it’s a pain. Suddenly, my beloved strength classes are too early to attend, there are kids’ club clashes, the punchy, kicky stuff merges with spin and Zumba, a favourite instructor has left, and what was once my three back-to-back fix is now reduced to two. I shouldn’t really whinge, I’m still managing two back-to-back classes, and I’ve been told three might be too much, but the FOMO is real. Just like that, my carefully built routine screeches to a halt, my brain starts offering excuses: “Maybe skip today… tomorrow’s fine… or next week.” And my endomorph body shape screams “cavewoman” more than usual.

There’s always the gym, right? Except, classes exist for those who like standing at the back and don’t really enjoy the actual gym feeling, where everything and everyone is on show. So when a class is replaced, moved, or removed, it somehow feels like a perfectly legitimate reason to boycott the gym all together… and return to writing my blog instead. Add in perimenopause mood swings and a finger hovering over the ‘rate my gym today’ button, and well, it’s not exactly my finest moment. But I refrain, because I’ve been there, done that, and it doesn’t get me closer to where I want to be physically. Change isn’t bad, but the older I get, the more I have to remind myself of that.

Why I’m not actually giving up (even if I want to at times)

So, I’ve had the thought lately: maybe I’ll give up. But then I show up. And in showing up, the endorphins return and I remember that being committed doesn’t mean perfection. It just means persistence, even when you’re tired, cold, sick, or just emotionally wrung out. 

Your brain will try to trick you. Your body will send signals that feel like betrayal. But giving up isn’t the same as resting, and giving up or not turning up isn’t the same as self-care. Sometimes, putting on your war paint, pulling on those Sweaty Betty’s, lacing up those trainers and stepping into a room full of energy, even if you feel like you’ve eaten too much pizza recently, is just what the doctor ordered.

Showing up is a huge win

Next time you think about skipping, remember: you’re not weak. You’re just negotiating with a lifetime of habits, hormones, and winter evenings. You’re fighting invisible battles, and sometimes, showing up is the little pick-me-up you need. And if all else fails, your future self will quietly high-five you, when you’re standing strong, pushing that supermarket trolley piled to the brim with five-litre water bottles, wine or just carrying a small child to bed.