The Hammer, the Ladder, and the Lesson: Why Being Bad is Actually Good

Let me paint you a picture.

I’m in our new studio space. It’s dusty. It’s raw. It smells like wood shavings and possibility. My husband, Brandon, who is generally in charge of all things loud and electric, is about to head out. Before he left, he said something along the lines of, “If you want to make some progress while I’m gone, go for it.”

Now, some might have taken that as a casual suggestion.

I took it as a personal challenge.

So I grabbed the only tool I can confidently identify: a hammer. Because obviously—if something needs doing, surely a hammer is involved. And also, I had already broken the screwdriver.

There was no real plan. No adult supervision. Just me, my determination, and a deeply concerning level of false confidence.

Here’s what I learned: 

🔨 Not every problem is a nail. 

🪵 You can give yourself a splinter the size of a canoe. 

🪜 Ladders are gravity’s favorite comedy prop.

Somewhere between “I got this” and “why is my arm bruising in slow motion,” I had a realization:

This is what it feels like to be new at something.

It’s awkward. It’s humbling. It’s “I think I’m making this worse?”

And it’s exactly what so many people feel the first time they walk into the studio.

When you’re new to a workout class, or lifting weights, or foam rolling like your life depends on it, it’s easy to think, “I must be the only one who doesn’t know what I’m doing.”

But you’re not. 

I was literally there this week, in a garage-turned-studio, asking myself, “Is it possible to hammer sideways? Because I think that’s what I’m doing.”

Eventually, I stopped what I was doing. Not because I was giving up—but because I knew there had to be a better way. A smarter way. One that didn’t involve blisters, splinters, or me standing on a rickety ladder, holding a hammer like Thor’s underqualified cousin.

The problem wasn’t my willingness—it was my lack of experience. So I did the most responsible thing I could: I paused. Took a breather. Gave myself permission to not figure it all out alone. And I waited for Brandon to get home.

When he walked through the door, I didn’t hand him the hammer—I handed him the question: “Can you show me how to do this the right way?”

And he did.

And then—I did.

And it felt great.

Right up until I got a little too confident, missed a step, and nearly swan-dived off the ladder in what can only be described as a full-body trust fall—with no one to catch me but my pride and a very Clark Griswold level of regret.

10/10 would not recommend.

But also?

10/10 learned something.

The point is: being bad at something doesn’t mean you’re failing. It means you’re learning. It means you’re brave enough to show up before you’ve figured it all out. 

And here’s the best part: you don’t have to figure it out alone.

Here, we’ve got people—the best kind of people.

You’re not walking into a room full of experts silently judging your squat form. You’re walking into a room full of friends who remember exactly what it felt like to be new—who show up, smile big, and crack a joke before you’ve even put your keys down.

They answer your nervous questions before you even ask them.

They save you a spot.

They cheer when you get through the warm-up like it’s the finish line.

That’s the kind of place we’ve built. 

Not just a studio—a community.

And if you need a hand (or a laugh, or help adjusting your bike seat), we’ve got you. Every time.

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