It’s a simple question that any gymgoer has asked and answered countless times. At first glance, it’s nothing – just logistics. But to me, that question became the foundation of an entire community. It’s started conversations, formed friendships, and transformed the gym into more than just a place to lift. 

Growing up an only child, I spent most of my time alone. On snow days, I’d sit by the window watching kids launch snowballs and build forts while I stayed inside reading or watching TV. No one told me I didn’t belong out there, but I believed it anyway. By the time I reached middle school, I’d built solid walls out of my self-doubt, trapping me in my own head. Meeting people felt impossible because I didn’t think anyone would like the person they’d see.

So the gym was the last place I thought I’d end up. I imagined it as a cage of judgment: everyone watching and silently sizing me up. For months, I dodged invitations from friends with a rotation of excuses: homework, a sore ankle, bad weather, the alignment of the moon – whatever worked. However, eventually they wore me down, and one afternoon I forced myself through those doors, my insecurities weighing far heavier than any dumbbell I could lift. 

I remember the blast of cold air from the AC and the smell of rubber mats and disinfectant wipes. The clang of weights echoed through the open floor. I kept my head down, headphones in, pretending my music made me invisible. If someone was using the machine I wanted, I’d walk away before they could even look at me. My goal was simple: lift, leave, and hope no one noticed I existed. 

Then it happened. 

I had been going to the gym for around three months at this point. I was resting before my second set of shoulder press, breathing heavily. I had rock music blasting so loud the bass thumped through the bench. Out of nowhere, I saw a fist appear in my peripheral vision. I pulled off one earcup and looked up. The guy next to me – early twenties, backwards cap, chalk on his hands – gave me a wide grin and held his fist out, waiting for me to reciprocate. 

I bumped it, mostly out of confusion. Still smiling, he asked, “How many sets you got left?”

For a second, I sat there in a daze, unsure of what was happening. Then I muttered, “Uh–one more,” and he nodded in understanding. He didn’t comment on my form or my weight. He didn’t seem bothered that I’d taken up the machine. He just waited. 

It was the first time I realized no one was watching me to judge – they were just there to lift, like I was. 

I wasn’t magically friends with everyone overnight, but the edges of the walls I’d built around myself started to give. I still kept my eyes down most days, but I stopped running from machines if someone was near them. One afternoon, I even asked someone else the question first. The words came out awkwardly as I stumbled over them in fear, but the guy just nodded and scooted over so I could work in. 

There was one moment that still sticks with me. I had skipped the gym for a few days because I was feeling too tired to bother, and when I finally came back, a guy I’d seen around called out, “Yo, thought you disappeared.” It wasn’t a big thing. I barely saw him around, but it shocked me. Someone had noticed I was gone. 

Those small moments stacked up like plates on a bar. I started learning names. I shared equipment. I spotted and got spotted. My workouts stopped being a secret mission and started being something I wanted to share. 

When I got to college, I thought I’d have to start from scratch – new gym and new faces. The old nerves came creeping back as I walked into the campus rec center for the first time. But for once, I didn’t come alone. The confidence that I’d been silently building up alongside my body helped me already make a group of friends who were all just as enamored with the gym as I was. 

One day, halfway through my workout, someone tapped my shoulder. I sat up and pulled off my headphones. Standing there was a kid from my economics lecture, who, little did I know, would become a very close friend. We’d barely spoken in class beyond a nod or two, but here he was. “Can I work in?” he asked. 

We ended up taking turns on the incline chest machine, talking between sets about how our professor seemed to have more energy than we did despite being double our age. A week later, we were meeting up to study before the exam. Now we keep an unspoken routine – lift, complain about economics, get food if we’re not dead after leg day.

My approach to training has changed without me noticing. When I started, the gym felt like a place I had to survive alone. Now it feels like a place I get to share. I’ll rack weights right after finishing because I know someone’s waiting. I’ll offer to spot without being asked. If someone’s grinding out their last rep, I find myself rooting for them even if I don’t know their name. The competition is still there, but it’s the kind that makes you want to hit one more rep, not hide behind a sweatshirt.

I’m still working toward the physique I want, but I’m stronger than I’ve ever been, and not just in the ways you see in a mirror. The confidence that started under the bar has leaked into the rest of my life. I talk to classmates and join pickup games after workouts instead of heading straight back to my room. 

A week ago, I spotted someone I’d never met before on the cable row. Whereas before I would have been too nervous, that day I paused, pulled out an earbud, and asked, “Yo, how many sets you got left?”

He blinked, then smiled when he realized what I’d said. “Uh, two, I think,” he said. I slid off the seat and gestured for him to take it. He hesitated, then sat down, still

smiling. Seeing that question from the other side made me realize, it’s not small at all.