The Gym Saved Me

It didn’t fix me, but it kept me from losing my shit completely. And it helped me prepare for the next chapter.

My last two years in the military were rough. Just this slow, grinding sense of what the hell is the point? After the withdrawal from Afghanistan, everything felt pointless. My job wasn’t fulfilling anymore. Everything felt like a waste of time. Like none of it mattered.

I had no purpose.

I was in survival mode. I went through the motions at work. Spent every spare moment planning my retirement. I was locked in on the next chapter. I wanted a clean break. A full reset. No dragging my military baggage into civilian life.

Therapy wasn’t doing much.

The gym became my therapy. It started as an outlet for my anger. Picking up heavy circles and putting them down again, while blasting rage music through my headphones. That was it. It was helpful. I was taking less anger home with me.

Eventually, it wasn’t just about thrashing. Lifting became meditative for me. Counting reps, focusing on form, following a plan. It gave my brain something structured to hold onto. It calmed the chaos.

But after a while, as I got to know people, it became more than that. It became my community. With  a vibe I hadn’t felt in a long time—supportive, encouraging, forward-moving.

I had been lifting for a few years at this point, but I didn’t know anything about bodybuilding. After a couple of months, I realized I wanted more than just showing up. I wanted progress. Real progress. I needed a coach, so I asked the guy at the front desk who I should talk to.

He pointed to the biggest dude in the gym (at the time, don’t you big mf get mad). Coach Paul. I was honestly scared to approach him, but I did, and he agreed to train me. I started getting stronger. Building muscle. Watching my body change in ways I hadn’t expected.

And with that came confidence. In the gym, success wasn’t about my past. Not my career, not my experiences, not my baggage. It was simple: do the work or don’t. It was entirely up to me. It was something I could control.

At first, competing wasn’t even on my radar. Walking onstage in a sparkly bikini and heels was about the furthest thing from my comfort zone imaginable. But the stronger I got, the more I wanted to push.

And it wasn’t just about fitness. It was about not becoming someone I didn’t recognize. I caught myself at work one day, just… trudging. Like an old, burned-out nurse. Like a defeated government employee counting down the days.

I was shrinking.

Physically, mentally—everything. Even my posture gave it away. Shoulders forward. Head down. I looked like I’d already given up. That realization made me nauseous. That version of me wasn’t coming with me into my next life.

My posing coach, Mika, taught me something I didn’t expect—to carry myself like a woman. Confident. Intentional. Comfortable in it. I had spent most of my life rejecting anything that felt “feminine.” Too much baggage attached to it. But posing forced me to confront that. To step into it instead of avoiding it.

Posing ended up feeling… freeing. I didn’t realize it yet, but I was freeing myself of the baggage.

Group posing sessions introduced me to other competitors—women I never would have met otherwise. These women were strong. Not just physically—mentally, emotionally. Some had lost 30, 40, 50 pounds. Some were recovering from addiction. Some were stepping on stage for the first time in their 60s. Moms. Marines. Professionals. Retirees. All of us awkward at first. All of us figuring it out. All of us cheering each other on. It was one of the most supportive environments I’ve ever been in. It was the beginning of finding new connections.

Competition prep changed my habits. I followed the plan exactly. No shortcuts. No excuses. I wasn’t about to embarrass myself, or my coaches, on that stage.

That structure did something therapy hadn’t managed to do. It made me stop drinking. After my dad died, I drank a lot of whiskey for about a week. After that, I didn’t touch alcohol for six months. Prep reinforced that. Now, I’ll have wine occasionally with friends—but that’s it. No more drinking on hard days. No keeping alcohol in the house. I don’t want that version of me back. I don’t miss it. I like sleeping. Actually sleeping—not passing out. I like waking up clear-headed. I like not carrying extra weight from useless calories. It’s a better life.

Stepping on stage meant more than just a competition. It meant proving to myself that I don’t quit. That I can push past the limits I thought I had. That I’m not defined by age, genetics, or circumstance—just discipline. It meant facing fear and doing it anyway. It meant rebuilding my confidence from the ground up.

I didn’t realize it then, but it was helpful in preparing me for ayahuasca. I cleaned up my diet. Stopped drinking. It made me more present and more in tune with my body. And it dialed in my discipline, which was a big part of sticking to a daily meditation and journaling practice.

It wasn’t just about competing. It was about unbecoming. Stripping away the version of myself that had been shaped by fear, burnout, and everything I didn’t want to carry forward. It was the beginning of something better.

The beginning of healing.