I have a habit of crying at the gym. It’s silly, I know, but I go to this gym every morning where, after a grueling 40 minutes of HIIT, the trainer turns off the lights and switches the playlist from Bad Bunny to Bon Iver, sometimes Adele.
This change is quick, going from burpees to corpse pose, fluorescent lights to total darkness. We become puddles on the floor, thirty or so adults collapsed on the ground together, hearts racing, limbs like jello, sucking down our water bottles. Only moments earlier, we were hurling our weights in the air, promising ourselves a break if we could complete just one more rep. Now, we’re basked in sad songs and darkness.
For five final minutes, the trainer guides us through a set of stretches—knee to chest, knee across body, child’s pose—and a mini meditation. Sometimes the trainer reads a quote or poem by yung pueblo; other times, they share an anecdote about their life, a story to encourage us for the day.
This is the p…
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