In 2019, it was reported that almost a third of women under the age of 35 feel too self-conscious to join a gym. It’s a sentiment that I understand all too well. I can speak in front of a crowd of hundreds of people or go on TV for a debate without breaking a sweat, but going to the gym always frightened me. For most of my life, when I occasionally deigned to take exercise (usually motivated by a period of self-loathing and some ludicrously low-calorie diet) I would sidle up to the treadmill hoping that no-one would look at me, believing that because I wasn’t an athlete, I didn’t deserve to be there.

It came as something of a blow when, in my mid-twenties, I discovered that working out was the key to managing my issues with anxiety. Why couldn’t the cure have been eating ice cream and watching old episodes of Dance Moms? Sadly, it was undeniable that in order to stay sane, I needed to regularly sweat. So I set about trying to unlearn the lesson that working out was a punishment.  

I bought a pair of trainers which actually fit and I started walking more. Walking became the occasional run. I took dance classes, HIIT classes and spin classes. I forced myself to say “I am going to the gym” rather than “I have to go to the gym”. I stopped factoring my workouts into my daily calorie intake. I bought leggings which made me feel good and splashed out on fancy water bottles. Little by little, year by year, I chipped away at the idea that the gym was something I forced myself to do and eventually, I started to become someone who viewed moving her body as a pleasant and important part of life – like sleep. And then a new instructor took over my regular Wednesday afternoon class.