Homeostasis

A new gym member sat across from me for her fitness assessment.

We began the usual process: discussing her motivation for joining, creating a vision of what she hoped to accomplish, and translating that into specific objectives—SMART goals.

She just wanted to feel healthier and be more active. No specifics were offered.

She was in her mid-30s, with a solid frame. Since shifting from an in-office schedule to work-from-home, she’d found herself less active and ordering too much food delivery.

Looking at her—from my professional standpoint, not from judgment—she looked like someone who had let herself go a little. She could stand to lose a little weight—easily accomplished with commitment and a routine. But only if that was important to her.

She didn’t weigh herself as a practice but consented to the full assessment. We measured her blood pressure, completed a movement screen, and ran a body composition analysis—a machine that breaks the body down into muscle, water, and adipose tissue.

I don’t love fitness industry jargon like “normal” or “standard,” but because there are real health implications, it’s a useful starting point for discussion. It’s important to approach the conversation scientifically, rather than emotionally.

I glanced at the paper, still warm off the printer. She was over 40% body fat.

Female ranges, for comparison:

• Athletic: 14-20%

• Fitness: 21–24%

• Average: 25 to 31%

Her numbers, while outside these ranges, were not unusual or alarming. Still, I’ve been doing this for over twenty years; I know how to approach this conversation delicately.

We looked at the numbers together.

“This shows the ratio of muscle and water compared to the extra energy your body is storing. That’s all we mean when we say ‘fat.’ It’s just extra energy your body has stored for later. In my view, you’re perfect just the way you are. And if there’s something you’d like to achieve with your fitness, I’m here to help.”

She bristled and quickly dismissed the paper. Didn’t want to keep it. Didn’t want to see it again.

“I don’t think this is going to work,” she said. “We are not on the same page about my weight. I’m happy with where I am and you’re telling me I need to lose weight to conform with some standard.”

I tried to correct her.

“To be clear, I don’t have an opinion in the matter,” I said. “I’m just reading to you what’s on the paper.”

“Well,” she said, clearly flustered as she gathered her things. “That scale is obviously wrong.” She stormed out of the room.

With so many years in this industry, I pride myself on the soft skills I’ve developed. Listening. Empathy. Clear communication. I felt confident I had done my part professionally.

It felt like talking to a wall.

The interaction stuck with me throughout the day.

Another lost opportunity to help someone. Another lost potential sale.

Rent was due. Late. Again.

Working with an affluent member base brings its own challenges. They can afford $150 training sessions—but they can also afford to flake, cancel, or simply disappear.

My program now needs to squeeze into their lives, rather than the way I’d always envisioned it: commit to something and overcome the obstacles to achieve it.

“I can squeeze you in once a week.”

“We’ll be in Palm Springs for the next six months.”

“I’m gonna try Pilates instead.”

A group of thirty new hires—trainers from various clubs around Los Angeles—showed up for the class I was teaching in the afternoon on physiology.

I asked for someone to give me their definition of homeostasis. Several made reasonable attempts.

I advanced to the next slide.

Homeostasis: The body’s constant effort to maintain equilibrium.

I always try to make these conversations practical—lived-in, connected to what we deal with every day as coaches.

“Obviously, this applies to our bodies before, during, and after exercise. But what else do you see here about dealing with our clients? About dealing with human behavior and change?”

An eager young woman, in her mid-20s, raised her hand.

“It has something to do with, like, comfort,” she said. “Like—it’s not just the systems in our bodies that are constantly regulating themselves. It’s us—our clients as a whole. Like we’re always seeking the path of least resistance, or what feels most comfortable.”

“That’s excellent,” I said. “And you’ve really nailed it with that word: comfort. Look at the arc of human history. Every new advancement has left us, as a population, more comfortable. We don’t spend our days hunting for food, seeking shelter, fighting off threats. Our food is delivered through DoorDash and our biggest friction is how much to tip the guy, right?”

The class laughed knowingly.

“Look at your own lives.” I continued, “Where in your life have you been lulled into comfort—and the cost has been your own growth? Your own forward momentum?”

I gave them a moment to consider.

“Now consider the members who walk through our doors each day, and what they must be dealing with.”

I told them about the member I’d worked with earlier that morning.

“It takes something,” I said. “It takes something for people to recognize when there’s a problem—an opportunity to change. And that’s where we can help catalyze that change—and support them through the transition.”

I’ve delivered versions of this lecture dozens of times over the years.

Still, when class was over, I skipped my own workout and went home. I ordered DoorDash and distracted myself from worrying about rent.