Eye of the Needle

I visited a friend—an ex-colleague.

We had worked at the same fitness club. A lifetime ago.

She’d moved on with her career. And life.

I haven’t.

Now she has a toddler.

Her boyfriend was at a bachelor party. She was done breastfeeding and wanted a kiki. I brought wine. Two bottles, just in case.

I haven’t wanted to see anyone lately. Still, it was nice to get out of the house.

“Don’t ask,” I said when she asked me about work.

“I don’t miss that place,” she said. “I can’t believe you’re still there. How’s—everything?”

She didn’t mention my weight gain. She didn’t have to.

I didn’t look this way when she knew me. She’d just had a baby and looked exactly the same.

I sat on the couch while she opened the wine. Her toddler sat on the floor nearby with a red block in his hand. He alternated between banging it against the shape sorter, tasting it, and trying to force it into the circular hole.

She handed me a glass and sat beside me. She followed my gaze and we watched together for a moment.

“It’s amazing,” she said, “watching their little minds learn.”

He chewed on the block.

“Can you imagine if we just never figured it out?” She snorted.

We both chuckled. I sipped my wine.

A loud buzzing sound cut through the room and she went chasing it. She returned with a basket full of laundry she couldn’t see over.

I could feel the heat coming off the clothes as she folded them, still warm from the dryer. We continued chatting.

At one point she held up a pair of pants against herself.

“Do you like these? I swear, I love their stuff. I’d wear their whole line, but they never fit me quite right. It’s either too long here or too wide there.”

She folded the pants and put them in the pile. “But I keep buying them, hoping either they’ll fit or I will.”

We spent the evening talking about her—not because she’s self-absorbed, but because I kept steering it that way.

I don’t even know what to share about myself these days.

Mostly we talked about her boyfriend. Their relationship.

I’ve been single—by choice—for as long as I can remember. I don’t know much about romantic relationships.

But hearing her tell it, it sounded to me like oil and water trying to mix together. I didn’t say anything. Just listened.

“My therapist says I need to accept that he’s not going to change. And that I need to stop nagging him all the time.”

My coaching instinct for accountability kicked in.

“So when will you start?” I asked, a little tipsy—playful.

She took the bait and played along.

“I’ll start tomorrow.

No—Monday.

Actually, the first of next month would be better.”

We laughed. I topped off the wine.

I didn’t stay late. I ordered a car home to Hollywood from Santa Monica.

It gave me a long time to reflect.

I was thirty years-old when I first became certified as a personal trainer. In a profession that favors youth, this was later than most. I didn’t care. The thought of fitting in never crossed my mind.

A prior experience with a 12-week fitness challenge had been transformative. Personal training felt like a meaningful path. It checked several boxes, including pulling me away from the soul-crushing world of corporate HR.

My early attempts working with clients felt...fraudulent. Reading a certification book and taking a test may demonstrate knowledge, but it doesn’t prepare you to feel confident working with clients.

I needed real education and on-the-job experience before I could believe in myself.

A luxury fitness brand was expanding from New York to Los Angeles. They had a robust in-house education and catered to a high-end clientele. It sounded perfect!

When I applied and interviewed, they told me I wasn’t the right fit.

Maybe I should have stopped there. Looked at alternate paths.

Instead, I took it as a setback, an obstacle.

The following year—through a personal connection—I was hired, albeit at a different location.

I still remember the smell in the lobby when I first walked in. Clean. Crisp. Almost like chlorine—but not quite. It became a ritual to inhale it deeply as I walked in each morning.

The new job was the next hill to climb. Build my client book and complete the first round of education to secure promotion to the next tier.

Then do it all again. And again. Beginner. Intermediate. Advanced.

After ten months, I was an advanced-tier trainer.

My manager and I were close. Because he saw leadership potential in me—but I was not inclined toward management—he urged me toward teaching.

It seemed like a great fit—an opportunity to further integrate my learning by teaching. I prepared my application, nailed my interview, and he advocated for my promotion.

Within a year of being hired, I was teaching the classes that had drawn me to the company in the first place. I felt confident and credible in my role. I’d gained the experience I came for.

I might have recognized—then—that I’d accomplished what I’d set out to do. I could have made plans to start my own private training business—the typical pathway.

But the seduction of teaching—leadership—compelled me. It didn’t occur to me to leave.

Now I had dual roles—maintaining my book of clients while onboarding, mentoring, and educating the training staff.

At first, my role as an educator left me feeling somewhat fraudulent in the way I’d felt early in my training career.

Naturally, I set out to address that. That year, I studied and secured two advanced certifications—considered gold standards. I created my own slide decks for classes, perfecting everything to my own standards.

My work paid off, and soon I felt competent in the core material. And with experience, I grew confident facilitating a classroom.

My manager was moved to another club. He brought me with him. The trade-off was starting over in building my business.

It was the location that hadn’t hired me the first time, probably for good reason.

West Hollywood was a different environment. More image-conscious. More performative.

I felt it immediately—every time I walked in. Like I was being watched.

I had optimized for something else—education, mastery, depth. All in service of the client experience.

This place rewarded something else.

Aesthetics. Image. Status.

I felt behind before I even began.

I struggled to rebuild my client book. I began comparing my physique to others. I hid instead of approaching members on the floor, avoiding what felt like certain rejection.

Without my manager’s help, I would not have lasted long.

Still, between my two roles, I earned enough to scrape by. It was never consistent. Without the stability of a salary I’d known in the corporate world, paying bills each month became a constant triage.

Eventually, my manager left.

I was on my own.

The new manager—a young guy in his twenties—had been one of my students. He had different priorities than my previous manager. I wasn’t one of them.

I gave myself an ultimatum—three months. Within that time, if I couldn’t turn things around, I would begin planning my exit.

I wrote myself a contract and signed it.

That was fifteen years ago.

Things turned around—but only enough to keep me in it. But the rollercoaster continued, and I began making other plans.

I leveraged my education to build the program I’d always wanted—a comprehensive fitness challenge designed to produce the same transformation I’d experienced years earlier.

It was beyond the scope of what I could offer at the company. Several clients agreed to pilot the program with me privately, and I took the leap—leaving the company after six years.

It wasn’t the company I disliked; it was who I had become in that environment.

The next hill was a mountain: entrepreneurship.

It wasn’t long before I learned my first lesson in business. There’s a difference between building a product—even an effective one—versus building a business. I had not created the infrastructure for a business.

As private clients completed the pilot of my program and moved on after providing favorable feedback, I had no funnel for generating new business.

In some ways, I was back where I’d started. Unstable income. Casting about for the next plan.

I wish I’d cast my line further. But it landed on the same company I’d left—opening a shiny new location, which was close to my apartment. No commute.

After a two-year hiatus, I was hired back.

I got back on the rollercoaster—hoping for no more ups and downs. Just a stable book of clients. A long runway to launch the next thing: life coaching, a writing practice, an online business.

That was ten years ago.

On social media, trainers I’ve worked with—and those I’ve taught—have long since moved on. New careers. Marriages. Children.

My focus keeps getting pulled back to the job—trying to get it right. Trying to optimize and perfect. Trying to stabilize an inherently unstable system.

Like lipstick on a pig.

Over the past year—or two, who can remember—I’ve journaled about my desperation. I’ve done career counseling work on myself. What Color is Your Parachute, I don’t know how many times.

Each time, I arrive at the same conclusion: I’m still aligned. Just not moving.

There’s a path forward—but none of it involves a risky leap.

An entrepreneur is not a salaried job.

Coaching requires the same client-building as training.

Writing doesn’t pay.

The company has no real competitors in the space. Any lateral move, for me, would be a step down.

I could go back to HR.

But to leave now—after eighteen years—without accomplishing what I’d set out to do—

What did I even want to do? Who can remember at this point?

I tell myself the only way to leave is at the top of my game; in my best shape, performing at my best. Clearly, undeniably successful. Because how will I make it out there if I can’t make it in here?

The only way out—I tell myself—is through the eye of the needle.

I am, by no measure, at the top of my game. I gained weight during the pandemic. Then lost it all. And gained it back, plus extra. I can try to justify it all I want, but it affects my credibility as a fitness professional.

If I just try harder. If I get myself onto a consistent program, then I’ll look better and feel better. And that will show up in my presence with others. Management will see it—start supporting me again. I can rebuild. Leave at the top of my game.

I’ll start tomorrow.

No—Monday.

Actually, the first of next month would be better...