Headstrong Health: The Psychology of Getting Fit

I moved to Boston in September not knowing if I could ever really be happy here. I mean, thinking of the opportunities in a new city is invigorating, but hearing foreboding voices speak of dark days and brisk air doesn’t paint the the most inviting picture of Boston. Leaving the Shirlington Running Club and my beloved gym in VA was like tearing off a bandaid, and didn’t think I could ever find a fitness culture that made me feel at home. I had day-mares of marshmallowy legs and sitting in the dark, cold winter with no-one willing to run with me (I’m a bit dramatic). 

Until my friend Meghan Guardino introduced me to November Project. At first, I felt like it was everyone else’s club and not mine. It felt weird to turn to hug before idle chat and to straight-face a group photo while my foot is sitting on someone’s shoulder. I still mess up: I chime in late on the “F-yeahs” (and censor myself, because there’s still something inhibiting about screaming the “F” word at Harvard), I bike instead of run, I slip in late (shh), and I miss my 5:50 alarm. Oh, and I smiled the cheesiest smile for my individual, face-on MUG SHOT last week, warranting a playful, “who smiles at November Project?!” from a fellow behind me in line. Fail. 

Normally in a group of hundreds you’d think nobody really pays attention, and therefore I shouldn’t care about these minor mess-ups. After all, how can that many people actually care about you? But they do. Somehow, Bojan Mandaric and Brogan Graham‘s voices boom through a tribe of hundreds to speak directly to your shaky confidence (and shaky legs), blasting new energy into your step, stride, or burpee. I push harder for them, for myself, for the person next to me who needs it just as much as I do. 

There are a few things I don’t care about: how many hills you do, what you look like, whether you’ve gotten your shirt tagged, or how old or young you are. I don’t care whether you prefer toe-shoes or converse (but that’s probably not good on your ankles, dude), or if you’ve complied to wearing tennis clothes or purple or a mustache or a Halloween costume. All I care about is that you got up by sunrise to be here with me, you hugged someone, and you dedicated your morning to being a bad ass motherfucker, and that doesn’t warrant a censor. 

P.S.
.. I wasn’t the only one who smiled.