I’ve never been an athlete.
I’ve always dreaded physical activity. It didn’t matter what it was: running, swimming, dancing, I hated it all. I never found any enjoyment in being covered in sweat or feeling out of breath and overwhelmed, especially in front of other people. Although, this wasn’t for lack of trying. My parents tried to sign me up for every sport imaginable, and I was honestly terrible at each and every one. My dad chalked it up to my body “not being built for exercise”. My mom just said I was lazy. Honestly, I’d be lying to say that either one of them was wrong.
I dreaded gym class more than anything in the world. I was always among the last picked when I was in grade school, because it was shockingly obvious to my classmates just how much I despised physical activity and would do anything to get out of it. I would purposely let people hit me with dodgeballs first so that I could be out of the game and sitting back against the wall for the rest of the class.My gym teacher would beg me to “try harder”. I insisted that even showing up for class was a sign of me trying harder.
When I entered high school, my hatred for exercise only grew. I managed to avoid having to take a gym class for my first three years. I decided that filling up my schedule by taking two languages was worth every second that I wouldn’t be spending chasing around basketballs on the gym floor. When I was forced into gym class my senior year of high school, I literally skipped so many times that I failed for one of the quarters. It was definitely not my proudest moment… but I also definitely didn’t regret it.
So, naturally, it came as no shock that I entered into college with no intention of ever stepping foot into a gym ever again. Walking up the hills of my campus was by far enough physical activity for me each and every day. The day that I found out that even colleges require students to take at least one gym course to meet the general education requirement, I nearly cried.Seriously.I hated exercise that much. However, the inner stubbornness (and laziness) within me persevered, and I was determined to take a lecture course that would fulfill my gym requirement without actually requiring any physical activity to be done. By the point in the semester that I realized that the class I had signed up for, Exercise Science 223: Exercise and Mental Health, did not actually fulfill my gym requirement at all and was truly a pointless class for my major, it was too late in the semester for me to drop it. All of my slacking had finally caught up to me.
I decided to stay in the course - not that I had much of a choice by that point. Despite being a pointless class, it required no actual physical activity, and, as a psychology major, I figured that the mental health portion of the course would at least hold my interest enough to get me through the remainder of the semester. Little did I know, that class was going to change my entire life.
I don’t mean to sound overdramatic, but it’s true. Around this same point last semester, I was struggling. Really, truly struggling. It is no secret to anyone who knows me well that I have struggled with my weight for years, ranging everywhere from below 100 pounds to nearly 170. At only 19 years old, I can say that I have been both clinically overweight and underweight. My days in high school were plagued by body dysmorphia and anorexic tendencies, which eventually morphed into a binge eating disorder and weight gain in college. My low self-esteem because of my struggles with my weight and body image left me with a shockingly low self-value, and a disinterest in taking care of myself. I had gotten so accustomed to my body negativity and poor eating habits that I genuinely believed that I would never recover, and simply accepted that I would never be happy in my own skin. I’ve inwardly dealt with these mental health issues for practically as long as I can remember, and I really believed that sophomore year of college was going to be the year that finally defeated me.It was difficult for me to even get out of bed most days, let alone function in class and in social situations. I was completely miserable in most aspects of my life, despite the front of happiness and togetherness that I was usually able to pull off in public or promote through social media. However, cracks in my façade became more and more apparent as the year went on, and many of my close friends began to realize just how unhappy and unstable I had become. There were days when I felt completely out of control of my own emotions, and it was absolutely terrifying. I knew that I needed help, but, simultaneously, I was beginning to feel as though nothing could help me. I’ve been to therapy; I’ve been medicated; I’ve read the self-help books.I really felt like I was going to have to struggle with my mental demons forever, and just learn to accept it as my reality. It was by far the darkest time in my life.
I came home from school and immediately joined a gym. I almost never went back after my first time, and my only motivation was that I had paid for the membership, so I had to at least stay for a month. I absolutely hated it. This wasn’t some miraculous transformation where I suddenly discovered my love for running and never looked back. No. I despised every second of my first month of working out. When I first began, I could barely run a 10-minute mile without walking breaks in between.It was embarrassing. However, every time I wanted to throw my hands up and decide that it was pointless, I would remember what I learned in Exercise and Mental Health: It takes 12-16 weeks to see improvement in mental wellness after beginning an exercise regime. So, I circled “August 14” on my calendar, 12 weeks after the day I joined the gym, and I pushed through.
They say that it takes 21 days to form a habit. After 21 days of regularly going to the gym, that’s what it became: routine, stable part of my days that I could form my schedule around. Even though it was unpleasant, I knew that it was a guaranteed part of my schedule, and it gave me a sense of responsibility and commitment. (i.e., I knew that I couldn’t just lie around in bed all day, eating a gallon of ice cream and watching reruns of Keeping Up with the Kardashians). As the days passed, I began to realize that I could suddenly run a mile and a half without stopping. Then two. Then I could run a mile in 9 minutes instead of 10. Then I could run two of them. Then three. By the time I was a month and a half into regularly working out, I realized that I was probably capable of running a 5k if I wanted to… so I did. The amount of pride that I felt when crossing that finish line is a feeling that I’m not sure I’ve ever had before in my life. I had set a goal, and I had accomplished it – and as simple as that probably sounds, a few months prior to running that 5k, my goal for most days had been just getting out of bed before noon and making it to class, which was something that I did not always achieve. I had completely altered my mindset; if I set my mind to something, I could do it, and I would find a way to make it possible. I had never held that type of confidence in myself before, and I honestly have never felt so invigorated.
When August 14th came, I almost forgot why there was a circle around it on my calendar. I had become so much more focused and accustomed to achieving my overall happiness and making healthy choices each and every day that I had forgotten my ultimate goal was to see improvement by 12 weeks of exercising. When I had originally circled that date, I had no idea how drastically different my life would be by the time it arrived. I could have never in my life imagined that the solution to my mental instability and chronic unhappiness with myself could be so radically improved by something as simple as exercising six days a week for little more than an hour. On August 14th, I looked back to the beginning of summer, when I nearly left the gym after my first time, barely able to run a mile. That morning, I ran four 8-minute miles, beating my previous time and distance. It was practically unimaginable for me to see how much progress I had made, and I felt both extremely proud and humbled.
Now, obviously, this has not been some miraculous recovery and “cure-all drug”. I still struggle with body image issues and my depression every day. They have not suddenly disappeared and left me entirely healthy and happy in a field of roses and puppies (unfortunately). However, if I have learned anything from this experience, it has been how to cope with them. Each and every day, I schedule a meal plan and exercise routine for the day, and I plan everything else around it. Every day, I know that if I can accomplish little, healthy goals, then anything else that may happen in my life – or in my head – can be more easily managed. Though it may sound dramatic, it truly feels as though I can breathe freely again, and I owe that improvement entirely to the Exercise and Mental Health class I stumbled upon accidentally while trying to avoid the very change it sparked within me.
This article was a bit more difficult for me to write than I anticipated – I am still learning to be open and honest with my struggles, as I believe that my experiences can genuinely help other people who are also dealing with mental health turmoil. I have kept much of this hidden from friends and family over the years, and, while it is a bit scary for me to publish this so openly, I also find so much relief in being truthful and embracing this new change. I am becoming an entirely new person, and I am truly learning to love and accept myself for it.Suddenly, my world seems significantly less dark – and I find so much pride in saying that I am the one who created the light for myself.
