Weight Room

I smell rubber mats, and I’m reminded of passion, respect, and motivation. I hear rap music blasting through speakers, and I know I’m in the weight room.

The first time I walked into the weight room my freshman year, I entered a room packed with football players reeking of sweat, intensity, and competition. Workouts written as acronyms across whiteboards looked like hieroglyphics to be deciphered only by members of an elite gym class. As I started my workout, I looked around to see not a single smile. When I approached the coach to ask a question, I was interrupted multiple times by athletes rushing past me. I was disheartened: how would I ever get stronger when I couldn’t feel comfortable in this room?

As the weeks passed, however, I discovered a quiet solidarity in the weight room. We’d warm up together, then fall into our own workouts, supporting each other both physically and emotionally, quietly motivating each other by trying to surpass our own individual goals. I didn’t need help lifting my ten pound weights, but as the only freshman girl in a room full of upperclassmen lifting over fifty pounds in each hand, I understood that with silent solidarity came respect. Running to the weight room right after school, I learned commitment to myself and my own ideals. I couldn’t cheat my body out of a routine designed to optimize success. Even if I didn’t feel like working out as the hour began, the moment I’d start a set of exercises, I had to finish them. I found my conscience in working out, an inner drive pushing me to stop complaining about the heat, about the pain, but instead, to embrace them.

As years have passed, I have been the only person, only female, only water polo player, only freshman, only sophomore, only junior, and only senior in the room. I fit into these singularities surrounded by individuals with different backgrounds and skill levels from my own. I am no longer afraid of being the “only one.” As disillusioned as I was the first time I entered the weight room, I may have misjudged their initial reaction to my arrival. Maybe my presence was questioned because I was a petite water polo player who’d never heard of a deadlift before. Or maybe the dismissal I sensed was founded in my insecurities and the fact that I myself didn’t feel as if I deserved to belong. I walked in expecting a warm welcome and was unsettled when I didn’t receive even the simplest acknowledgement, validating my doubts. I’ve since realized that entering a room of strangers focused on keeping up with their rigorous exercises was not the place to expect a rousing reception. I acknowledge the perils of first impressions.

I now identify with the football players that once intimidated me. We welcome new minds that enter the room, whether outright – as I greet my friends and confused newcomers – or silently – as I receive the occasional nod from the football players in the hallways at school. We respect the diversity found in the weight room, one that helps establish a sense of equality amongst individuals. For the first time, I appreciate a different kind of balance: a balance in humanity, a profound equality that resonates with acceptance.

After one workout, my mood can completely flip. I leave the weight room refreshed and ready to tackle the next part of my day. As I think about college, I wonder if it might feel like the first day I walked into the weight room. This time, I’m excited by the prospect of new places to fit in, new challenges to overcome, and new solidarities to build. I do wonder what the rubber mats in my college’s gym will smell like.