“30 minutes and we’re OUT.”

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That’s what I told my partner when he convinced me to come to a new gym. (We’re hanging out in New Mexico for a month and there’s a little place super close to our airbnb. He wants to “take advantage.”)

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Now, some history:

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Eight years ago, I was in the gym every day. (I was working nights and had no social life and was able to spend 90 minutes at the gym at 11am Monday – Friday.)

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I was a hot gym girlie who no one ever saw except for my retired friends who were also able to be at the YMCA in the middle of a workday. I hope my cycle buddies are still alive.

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So when I walked inside this tiny Taos “gym,” I was nervous.

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How does this cable thing work?

I don’t think I can actually lift a dumbbell.

What’s a lunge?

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“You’ll be fine. Go have fun,” my partner said as he trotted off to said cable machine.

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I carved out a corner and pulled out the workout I had scribbled on a piece of paper.

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First things first: 10 squats. Easy peasy.

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DO YOU KNOW HOW WEIRD IT IS TO DO A SQUAT IN PUBLIC. WHILE WATCHING YOURSELF IN THE MIRROR.

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Because I had forgotten until that very moment.

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Being a gym girlie is NOT like riding a bike. It’s straaaaaaaange. The whole time, I was waiting for someone to come over and say, “you can’t be here” or “you’re hogging the mirror” or “ma’am, your big headphones aren’t fooling us — we don’t think you actually know how to squat.”

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The first ten minutes were heightened insecurity. I smiled too hard at everyone who walked by. They were all unnerved.

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And then … 25 minutes later, I was done. I had survived. And not a single person told me I looked weird as fuck.

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Funny how we get in our head about shit like that, huh?

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I naturally tend to walk around the world anticipating that someone is going to confront me about how I’m not supposed to be there or how I’m doing “it” wrong. I think that’s why I smile at everyone. It’s my attempt to disarm them before they can challenge my presence.

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My therapist would say it’s a manifestation of fawn response behavior — a nervous system adaptation where I appease perceived threats to avoid conflict or rejection.

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But I know what it really is: insecurity (and a little bit of narcissism) wrapped up in a nervous ball of energy.

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So let this be my reminder, and yours, too:

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Truly, no one gives a fuck.

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They don’t care that you just walked in the door.

They don’t care that you’re trying something new.

They don’t care that you’re always scared to order a gin martini at the bar because they’re going to ask you what kind of gin and you still don’t know how to pronounce Tanqueray (it's with a "g" ... or is it? damn it).

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It can feel so fucking strange to exist in the world. To take up space, as the manifestation coaches would say. But we totally can. And we should.

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And if anyone does care? Screw ‘em.

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The obvious segue here:

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• Post the thing.
• Do the scary stuff.
• Yadda yadda yadda yadda yadda yadda .

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But, really, I’m writing this email to ask you to — if you ever see me in the gym — give me a “daaaaaamn, girl.”

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It would do wonders for my confidence.

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Kelsey

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PS Let me know if you want me to post my workouts! I steal mine mainly from Beverley Cheng and Alexia Clark. If you click on those links, you will see BONKERS CUT women. You can follow them OR ... you can let me know if you want me to post my workouts in which I cut the reps, cut the weight, and modify literally every exercise.