It’s -10°C. I can hear the crunch of the snow beneath my feet, the wind stings my face—the only part of me exposed to the elements. It’s dark out. I haven’t seen the sun in what feels like months. A true Canadian winter. I don’t want to be here, but I’m going, marching forward to a place I don’t want to go to—but I’ve got a bone to pick. A problem that needs solving, one that I’ve mulled over, talked about, meditated on, and sought advice for, yet it continues to nag in the back of my mind, yearning to be fixed. A problem that simply needs to be expressed, moved through—and I need a witness.
I’m going to the gym, a place where every rep, every set, every breath, and every bead of sweat brings me closer to clarity.
I’ve been on this journey for about two years, walking back into the gym even on days I don’t want to—even when it’s hard. I didn’t start because of a New Year’s resolution or an online challenge. I started because I just wanted to feel good again, and I knew that movement was a necessary step towards that. I didn’t have a specific goal weight or a certain number of abs in mind. I wanted my body to reflect how I saw myself—who I’m meant to be from the inside out. I wanted my physical capabilities to exceed my expectations.
What I didn’t anticipate was discovering one of the best mental health practices I’ve ever tried. Movement, and its physical effects, would permeate into my heart, my soul, and my mind.
Many scientists have proven that physical exercise releases dopamine and is one of the most effective ways to achieve the “feel-good” hormone. No, it doesn’t always “feel good” in the moment, and certainly on this cold January day, it doesn’t feel great to wrap myself up and drag myself to the gym. But I know the motivation will come not before, but after I get in there and do the work.
This motivation goes beyond any immediate physical goals—it’s about investing in my future health and setting the foundation for my older self. Most importantly, I’ve created a reliable practice for my heart to heal. When therapy, meditation, self-help books, writing, or talking to friends and family don’t yield the results I hope for, I bring that problem with me to the gym.
When I step inside, the lights are bright, the music is bumping, and everybody’s working—using their bodies to find their own solutions. I hear their breaths, their strain, their failures, and their wins. I’m here to work it out, in community.
At the gym, nobody cares if you’re angry or hurt. Nobody is listening to you grunt or growl through that last rep. They won’t bat an eye at how red you get, how much you sweat, or if you fail. Failure and vulnerability are key here. Both help you accomplish things you never thought you could. They build resilience—physically and psychologically. And with them comes a communal understanding: we’re all here, challenging ourselves towards something.
It’s hard, and it’s also beautiful—and we do it together, side by side, even silently. In holding space for ourselves and each other, we grow, dream, and take action towards becoming the people we truly are—who we’re meant to be.
Today, as I make my way to the locker room, I quickly put on my workout shoes—the final piece—and step out towards the racks. I pick tunes to match my mood, stretch, and warm up into the full expression of where my heart and head are. As I journey through my routine, I might bring out tools I’ve picked up over years of meditation, physical training, performance practice, therapy, and spiritual work—to take the next step in solving my problem.
I use breathwork to stay grounded during a difficult rep. Breathwork is one of the most effective ways to shift out of a fight, flight, or freeze state.
I visualise my dreams taking shape as I push through that last set—or, on tough days, I visualise something serene, like watching the sunset. Visualisation, a commonly used practice, has tangible benefits: it improves performance, reduces stress, creates new neural pathways, and supports mental health.
And on particularly difficult days, when life’s challenges seem insurmountable and my confidence is low, I repeat a mantra in my mind that my heart needs. With every exercise, I anchor the words deeper into my body and psyche. “May I find peace.” “I am capable.” Mantras physically affect the body, activating the parasympathetic nervous system and even blocking the release of stress hormones.
On this day, each strain of my muscles and every physical sensation helps me feel connected to my body. It allows me to practise presence and mindfulness. Instead of fixating on the problem, I take action—sometimes as simple as getting through that last rep.
As my problem resurfaces in my mind, it suddenly feels smaller than when I first came in. It becomes manageable—something that can be broken into steps, released with a breath, or battled out at the bench press. By honouring my heart, my mind, and my well of emotions, I’ve expressed them through movement.
Here, there is no judgement—only the healing power of movement and the open arms of the mat. It welcomes me as I am, just to see me and nothing else. To bear witness as I work it out and cheer me on, no matter the outcome.
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