If you’d have told me two years ago that I would have a gym membership, I’d have laughed in your face. Gyms terrified me. They were places where hot, thin people go. They were full of talk about macros and protein supplements. They had horrible slogans that made it clear that working out was only good for one thing: getting and staying thin. Gyms were where you went if you hated your body and wanted to contort it to fit increasingly unhinged beauty standards.

Now I go to the gym multiple times a week. 

Longtime readers will already know that I suffer from chronic, often debilitating, pain; another unexpected motherhood tax nobody tells you about. I have done just about everything I can think of – including, at the behest of a physio, massaging my perineum with a (new, unused) dog ball – to try and manage it. 

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After much cajoling by a different physio (who didn’t subscribe to canine-toy-based-methods), I started a HIIT class at the gym where she also teaches pilates.

Then, at the beginning of this year, I accidentally started going to a strength class (long story) and now I lift barbells.

Kateryna Hliznitsova for Unsplash+

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