The Gym and Mental Health: A Brutal Truth

Four weeks. That’s how long I’ve been going to the gym consistently. In the grand scheme of things, it’s nothing. But for me? It’s the longest I’ve ever gone without losing momentum.

I’ve missed a day or two, life happens, exhaustion wins, but considering where I was before this? Drowning in depression, suffocated by anxiety, too numb to care? This is something.

Not a victory. Not a transformation. But something. And when you’ve been lost in the dark as long as I have, something feels monumental.

The First Attempt: A Familiar Cycle

This isn’t my first time stepping into a gym. The first time was over twenty years ago. I was working at a cinema in Leicester Square when I decided, Why not? The gym was in Holborn, I had a discount, and for a while, it felt good. I went a couple of times a week, then more when Gym Box opened next to my job. I had no clue what I was doing, but I liked it.

Then life happened. Depression hit. The gym, like everything else, slipped away.

I wanted to go back, but I didn’t. Work in hospitality consumed me. Night shifts shattered my routine. Sleep was a mess, energy nonexistent, motivation a joke.

Then, another wave of depression. Another loss. Another cycle of I should do something followed by I can’t.

Trying Again: A False Start

Leaving hospitality for the university job was supposed to be a fresh start. A real chance to rebuild. One of my first goals? Get back into the gym.

But I knew myself well enough to know that if the gym was near home, I wouldn’t go. It had to be near work, somewhere unavoidable, somewhere that stripped me of excuses.

I found a place. £45 a month, decent enough, friendly staff. Signed up, got a program, told myself, This time, you’ll do it right.

I tried going after work. Hated it. Exhausted. Drained. Then I tried 6:30 AM. Hard as hell, but better.

But something wasn’t clicking. I couldn’t get past two days a week, sometimes just one. I wanted to go. I told myself I should go. But it was like there was a wall between me and action. Maybe it was depression. Maybe anxiety. Maybe both.

Then everything fell apart.

That gym, that routine, that hope? Gone. I was paying for a membership I wasn’t using. My mind spiraled. My body deteriorated. The thought of walking back into that gym made me feel like a failure.

Finding a New Gym: The Shift

Four months ago, a new gym opened closer to work. I ignored the flyers. Walked past the stall at the freshers fair. I’d been here before, false starts, wasted memberships.

But something made me check it out.

The place had a different energy, moody lighting, neon streaks cutting through the dark, no generic pop music blasting through speakers. It wasn’t a polished, sterile gym. It had a space with weights, resistance bands, boxing bags. You could play your own music. It felt… right.

By the end of the tour, I told them I’d sign up at the end of the month. But walking out, I thought, Why wait?

I signed up the next day.

Canceled my old gym membership and told myself, This time, you show up.

Building a Routine: The Mental War

I needed a plan. Spent hours researching apps, Nike Training, Jefit, Fitbod. Settled on Fitbod. It let me customize everything, track my workouts, and see my progress.

But no app drags you out of bed at 4:30 AM.

That’s a different battle entirely.

The alarm goes off, and my body begs for more sleep. My mind whispers, Stay. There’s no point. But I get up. Not because I want to. Not because I’m motivated. Because I have no other choice.

Shower. Coffee. Pack my bag. Head to work as the gym is a Two-minute walk from there.

And for an hour, I move. I lift. I sweat. I fight against the urge to stop.

Some days, I feel good afterward. Some days, I don’t. Some days, the depression is louder than the weights clanking around me.

But for an hour, my mind is quieter. And right now, that’s enough.

The Gym Won’t Save You

People love to say, The gym saved my life. And I get it. Movement helps. But the gym isn’t a cure. It won’t erase depression, won’t fill the void, won’t undo the years of pain.

But it does something.

For a little while, the thoughts slow down. The weight on my chest eases, just a fraction. And sometimes, that fraction is the difference between making it through the day and collapsing under it.

But here’s the truth no one tells you: The gym is just one piece of the puzzle.

You can lift weights, run miles, push your body to exhaustion, but if you’re not sleeping, not eating, not talking to someone, even if it’s just a journal, you’re not fixing anything. You’re just masking the pain with sweat. To deal with mental health, you don't just need to work on your body. You need to work on your mind.

Some people say fitness is the answer to mental health. It’s not.

It’s a tool. 

It's one part of the equation.

A weapon in the arsenal.

But no single weapon wins the war.

The Small Wins Matter

So what’s changed in four weeks?

• On gym days, getting out of bed is slightly easier.
• My body feels… better. Not drastically, but stronger.
• My mind? Still heavy. Still carrying its weight. But the fog clears a little faster.

And for the first time in a long time, I’m doing something.

That’s all I can ask for right now.

The Fight Never Ends

I won’t sit here and lie, say the gym transformed me into a new person. It didn’t.

I still have bad days, I still have days where I don't wanna get out of bed. I still fight the urge to isolate. Some mornings, the weight of everything feels unbearable.

But I go.

Because even if the gym doesn’t fix everything, doing something is better than doing nothing.

Because this, this routine, this movement, is a middle finger to the part of me that wants to give up. 

Because, in a world where I have lost all my connections, I can feel a tiny connection towards the gym.

Because maybe, just maybe, these small wins will prove I’m still here. Still fighting. And that has to count for something.

And for now, that’s enough.