Six-Pack Abs? I Was Just Looking for Friends.

I’ve been a group fitness instructor for fourteen-ish years now. That’s 14 YEARS of pretending to love push-ups, shouting “Woooo!” like a backup vocalist for Pitbull, and reminding folks that yes, hooting and hollering IS allowed during class and no, your neck should NOT disappear like a turtle retracting into its shell when you do an overhead press. 

But I don’t just stick around for the workouts.

I stay for the weird, wonderful circus of humans who show up.

Because somewhere between the squats, the swearing, and the shared trauma of planking to Britney remixes—community happens.

And I mean that in the most chaotic, heartfelt way possible.

Actual things I’ve witnessed at The Fitness Studio:

• A woman who stood in the middle of the room like a statue for a full 45 minutes, just…observing. Didn’t move a muscle. Left in tears. Weeks later admitted she had EXTREME anxiety around exercise. Flash forward: she’s a back-row beast who high-fives strangers and owns three pairs of leggings with the peep-through sides.

• A mom who casually confessed she named her first child while her husband was at work. Didn’t run it past him. Didn’t regret it. Her now-grown child (also in class) turned and said, “Wait…WHAT?”

• One woman who confessed she lost her cool while watching her spirited grandson. “I lost my sh*t,” she said, “and I still feel awful.” I attempted to relate by letting her know I booted my crying Kindergartner out of the car that very morning before peeling out. Then we wiped down our hand weights while casually dismantling generational guilt.

• Another student who said she hadn’t done anything for herself in several years—not since her partner passed. She signed up for class thinking it was gonna be way too much for her. But now, she shows up early and stays late, and we’ve all agreed to ignore any choreography whoopsies out of sheer respect for her growth arc.

• And then there was the classic: “My husband left me and I still don’t know why.” (If you ask me, he probably couldn’t handle her power squats.)

And you know what? These people—these absolute legends—have also saved my butt more times than I can count.

They’ve hugged me when I was going through it.

They’ve texted to check on me after class.

They’ve helped raise my kids.

They’ve gently reminded me 5-minutes before start time that I WAS THE NEXT INSTRUCTOR when I somehow forgot. (Fun fact: I make the schedule.)

They are angels in leggings.

Chaos wranglers in cross-trainers.

And if you think that’s dramatic, you’ve clearly never tried to lead a cardio circuit while crying over an Old Navy commercial and pretending it’s just “sweat in your eyes.”

Best part? None of this has anything to do with six-packs or thigh gaps. (Though some lucky beaches have claimed to achieve such as a pleasant side-effect.)

Some of the biggest wins I’ve seen have nothing to do with the scale.

• It’s someone walking through the door after a divorce and realizing they can laugh again.

• It’s a new mom finally carving out 45 minutes where no one’s hanging off her boob.

• It’s a retired teacher dancing like no one’s watching—because no one is, we’re all trying not to pass out.

Group fitness isn’t all about transforming your body.

It’s about showing up with your whole messy self and realizing—oh hey, I’m not the only one who forgot deodorant today. (We keep extra in the back. Socks and scrunchies, too.)

So if you’re waiting until you “get in shape” to join a class, stop.

Come now. As you are. Faded sports bra with holes and all.

We don’t care if you’re coordinated. We care if you laugh when I trip over my mic cord and my ponytail gets caught in my armpit.

We don’t care if you’re fit. We care if you’re kind (and bring snacks).

Group fitness continues to enhance my life after all these years—not because I’m becoming a fitness goddess—but because I found my people.

And you might, too. (If you try.)