Let me confess something real quick:
A few months ago, if you asked me to go to the gym, I would’ve smiled politely, and said “someday,” and then promptly taken a nap. And yet I was often tired, low-energy, mentally foggy, and spiritually nudged to move.
It wasn’t laziness. I was doing a lot. Life was lifting. But my body was screaming for help, tired by midday, sleepy by afternoon, restless by night. And in the midst of all that, God whispered something I couldn’t ignore:
“You’re not moving enough. You’re not treating this body like the gift it is.”
Oof. Conviction hit hard. It wasn’t a guilt-trip kind of word. It was a loving correction, the kind that calls you higher. I knew I had to respond. But knowing and doing are two very different things, right?
So, I called a friend.
You know that one person you can count on to keep it real and not let you slide? Yep. I told her I needed to move more and that I wanted to feel better, think clearer, sleep deeper, and honor my body. I also told her the gym felt like a whole production. The shoes. The outfits. The people. The sweating.
But we made a plan. Nothing wild. Just a start.
And then June came and with it, a moment of obedience. I showed up. That first day? Whew. I questioned every decision that led me there. Muscles I didn’t know I had woke up and introduced themselves rudely. But underneath all the ache, something else was stirring:
Joy.
Real, deep, simple joy.
Movement, But Make It Soulful
Now I’m three weeks in. I move a minimum of three days a week, and four if I’m feeling extra. The rhythm is working. What I love most is that it’s not a boring routine. It changes and change keeps me curious.
-One day it’s spin class, my legs scream but my soul sings
-The next, it’s abs + core, where I pretend I’m not dying inside.
-Then we lift weights, because strength is for the everyday loads we carry.
-And sometimes, we’re at the poolside, moving under open skies and fresh breeze like we’re in a wellness retreat in Bali. (Okay fine, maybe not Bali, but close enough.)
I’ve stopped seeing exercise as punishment and started seeing it as a way to show God I’m listening and that I want to be a good steward of what He gave me.
And so, here I am, mid-journey, and feeling more alive in my own skin than I have in a long time. What began as a quiet conviction turned into motion. What felt impossible now feels essential. Not in a loud, intense way, but in a steady, grounding kind of way.
I’m learning that movement can be sacred. That joy can live in sweat. That obedience, even in something as ordinary as working out, can unlock parts of you that were waiting to rise.
There’s strength I didn’t know I had.
There’s peace I didn’t know I needed.
And there’s this version of me, clear-eyed, stretched, and smiling that I’m just getting to know.
And honestly?
I really like her.
And I still have sluggish days. Days when the bed is magnetic and the workout mat looks judgmental. But I remind myself: this isn’t about aesthetics. It’s about obedience. It’s about discipline. It’s about fitness, joy and strength and worship.