A New Kind of Strength

In April 2026 participated in a group workout class. My first in nearly a year.

I left early – right in the middle of the class. And I didn’t feel bad or embarrassed about it.

A year ago, I would have stayed in the class, pushing myself beyond injury. All to please the instructor who wasn’t listening to me and my physical limitations – and to avoid embarrassment in front of people I would likely not see again.

That actually is what happened around a year ago. I had a shoulder injury that I was desperately trying to ignore and continued to push myself through a weight training class that focused, you guessed it, on upper body. Staying in the class only exacerbated the pain. And I didn’t stop there. I went to yoga classes pushing myself through pain and the limits of my injury.

Why? Because I wanted to show no one in particular that I was more flexible than them. That I was somehow better than them in some very unimportant way.

But really, who cares? No one was paying attention to how high I could hold my leg in Tree Pose or how well I did the King Pigeon Pose.

And if I searched the depths of myself I was being ridiculous.

So nearly a year later, after multiple medical procedures significantly limited my mobility for a long duration, I ventured into a group class. But this time with a different perspective. I was there in the class not to show off, but to regain my strength. My muscles had atrophied. Significantly.

And that reality is humbling in a way I wasn’t prepared for. Movements that once felt automatic now required focus. Weights that used to feel light were extremely heavy.

But this time, I listened. Not to the instructor who was trying to push me beyond my very vocally-stated physical limitations. Not to the imagined expectations of strangers.

I listened to my body. And when it told me it was enough, I stopped. I told the instructor that I was leaving and that it would be dangerous for me to continue.

No one chased me down. The world didn’t collapse because I chose myself over some kind of imagined performance.

Instead, the instructor told me that she hoped that I would return soon and to enjoy my day.

And as I drove home I thought about how much what we do is by a fear that isn’t even real. Largely a fear of embarrassment. How often we push past our own limits, not because we should, but because we think we’re supposed to. And no one is paying attention anyways because they are focused on themselves.

Recovery isn’t linear. It’s not impressive. It doesn’t look good from the outside. It’s slow, uncomfortable, and sometimes invisible. But it’s also honest. It forces you to confront yourself. Honestly.

And honesty with myself requires the willingness to disappoint other people, or more accurately, the willingness to let go of the idea that they were paying attention in the first place.

Because worrying about what other people think comes at a cost. And more often than not, that cost is paid by you. Your body. Your health. Your peace of mind.

There is nothing admirable about sacrificing yourself for the approval of people who are not invested in your well-being. There is nothing impressive about pushing through pain just to appear strong.

Strength looks different now. It looks like awareness. It looks like walking out of a room when you know it’s the right thing to do, even if it doesn’t make sense to anyone else.