Nouriched: Eat, Move and Rest Your way to Wellness

I’ve been going to the gym at least three times a week for the past six months—for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in (mild, noncommunicable) sickness and in health. It’s been a whole commitment, y’all.

When I first started, it wasn’t about chasing PRs or sculpting delts. It was about showing up. Some days I walked at a glorified mall-walking pace on the treadmill for 20 minutes, wiped my brow like I did something revolutionary, and headed home. Other days I flirted with the HIIT area, heart racing, lungs negotiating a surrender. And sometimes, I tiptoed around the weight machines, half-lost but determined, guided by an online workout plan and pure vibes.

You see, I had to get used to moving—because, let’s be honest, exercise doesn’t come naturally to me. I’ve always been more of a “walk for wellness” kinda girl. Group fitness classes? Sure. Neighborhood strolls? Love. But gym culture? Intimidating. Loud. Sweaty. Testosterone-y. Not my ministry.

But something clicked.

I started watching the fitness creators I admire, and while yes—some of them are genetically blessed—the truth is, they also work. Really hard. The discipline? Palpable. And when I looked around my local gym, I noticed something: the most consistent faces weren’t doing the most. They weren’t flinging battle ropes or backflipping onto boxes. They were doing simple things, repeatedly. Squats. Pulls. Presses. Walks. And they looked strong—because they had simply done those things longer and with more intention.

Now, six months in, I can say: I hate the gym just a little less.

I’ve lost between 6 and 8 pounds (depending on the day and the scale’s mood), and I’m feeling noticeably stronger. There’s still no joyful glitter in my workouts. No high-fives from the heavens. But it’s becoming… routine. Like brushing my teeth. Except with sweat and sports bras.

And maybe that’s the point.

You don’t have to love it—you just have to keep showing up until your body and brain catch on. I’m playing the long game here. Strength is slow. But it’s steady. And it’s earned.

Now that I’ve built the “discipline muscle,” I think it’s time to bring in some support. A personal trainer. Maybe even a workout buddy—someone to push me, cheer me on, or at the very least, share the post-leg-day limp with.

So no, I’m not in love with the gym. But we’re starting to see eye to eye.

And if you’re where I was—dreading the gym, overthinking every step, worried about looking out of place—start anyway. Go for five minutes. Do one machine. Just move. You’re not behind. You’re building.

We don’t need to slay the gym dragon in one epic workout. We just need to keep showing up with our little fire, again and again.

And maybe one day, we’ll love it.

Or at least, hate it even less.