Stay Alive.

Fitness for me isn’t about the mirror, or the way I look. It’s not about the muscles, or the six-pack abs. I know that sounds like a cliché, but I need you to hear this: I don’t use fitness for aesthetics. I use it because it keeps me from falling apart. It keeps my head clear, but it’s more complicated than that. I didn’t even realize it until recently, but for a long time, fitness has been a way to hurt myself. I didn’t know I was doing it, but that’s what it was—pain, self-inflicted, wrapped up in weights and sweat. I thought I was doing something good. But the truth is, I was using it as a substitute for something darker.

I grew up in a broken home. I don’t want to get lost in my past because I know there are people out there who’ve had it much worse than I did. So I’ll just cut to it.

I was bullied. I was called a “fag” every single day—by the kids at school, by my stepdad, by the people I looked up to. I was small, skinny, awkward. I didn’t fit in. I didn’t know how to fight back. I didn’t even know what I was fighting for. I was a kid. But the words stuck. They hurt. And after a while, I started to believe them. It was like they were tattooed into my skin. I wasn’t “normal.” I was too different. Too weak. And there was nothing I could do about it.

When I was 14, I couldn’t take it anymore. I was done with being the small one, the outcast. So, one night, around 2 a.m., I just decided: this ends now. I started doing push-ups in my room. Over and over, until my arms burned and my body ached. And when that wasn’t enough, I started doing crunches, quietly, trying not to make a sound. I did this every night for months, in the dark, while everyone else was asleep. I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t know why. But it felt like something I could control.

Eventually, I built up enough courage to step into the weight room at my high school. It was small, cramped, and crowded with kids who looked like they knew exactly what they were doing. But I kept showing up. Slowly, I started to fill out. The shirts fit better. The boys at school started noticing. For a while, that felt good. But it wasn’t until I was 17, that something shifted.

One night, I went to this 24-hour gym about 20 minutes outside of town. I was alone. I remember the empty warehouse, the low hum of the lights, and the cold metal around me. I started my chest workout, but everything felt wrong. I was moving weight, sure, but it didn’t feel right. It felt pointless. My 17-year-old ego was crashing down. Every time I looked in the mirror, I saw someone who wasn’t enough. I saw the same kid I used to be. The kid I hated. And I knew that no matter how much weight I pushed, it would never be enough.

I wasn’t even sure I understood it at the time, but I felt stuck. Trapped in a small town, with no way out. I didn’t know back then how much my past had fucked me up, how much my mental health had been shaped by the things I’d gone through. But that night, in that empty gym, it all started to click. And I realized that I was broken in ways I didn’t even know how to fix.

But in that moment, something took over. Something snapped. I put down the chest press and grabbed the cable row. I don’t even know why I switched. I just did. I did my first set of 10 reps—slow, controlled. But then... something was different. My breath started coming faster. I stared at the bar in front of me, and instead of waiting the usual minute for my next set, I jumped right back in. I didn’t care anymore.

I pushed myself harder. Ten more reps. Then ten more. My hands were shaking. I could feel tears welling up in my eyes. My chest tightened. My throat felt like it was closing. I couldn’t breathe. More, I told myself. I have more. And I kept going. Ten more reps. Ten more. My hands went numb. My heart was racing. The weight felt heavier. My form was falling apart. I could feel the burn, the strain, the tears threatening to break me.

But still, I pushed. More, I told myself. “They’re laughing at you. You’re not enough. You’re weak. You’ll never be anything more than what they said you are.” And still, I kept going. More. My hands were bleeding now. I couldn’t keep my form. I could barely finish a rep. My vision started to narrow, like the world was fading away. I couldn’t see anything but the pain. And then, I couldn’t take it anymore. I let go. I staggered away from the machine, stumbled to the bathroom, and threw up. I collapsed onto the cold floor of that warehouse gym, sobbing. My hands were covered in blood. My heart was still pounding. And for the first time in a long time, I felt... alive.

I didn’t know what to call it then, but I do now. I call it “the void.” It’s this place where I push myself beyond what feels possible. I push until I can’t feel my body anymore. I push until I see black. It’s not healthy. I know it’s not. I’m fully aware that I’m gambling with my health, with my life. But it’s part of me. And I can’t stop.

Every workout after that night has had a piece of that void in it. Sometimes it’s once a week. Sometimes, when I’m feeling really low, it’s every day. But I need it. I have to find it. And when I do, when I’ve pushed myself to the edge, the feeling that comes after is indescribable. There’s something in that pain that makes me feel like I’m actually living. Like I’m not just surviving. It’s a relief. A strange, almost sacred relief.

If you don’t see results in my workouts, it’s because of this. This strange, twisted part of me that exists in every set. It’s not a healthy coping mechanism. I don’t think it’s something to be proud of. But it’s part of my routine. It’s a part of me. And some days, I feel like I’m nothing without it.

So, to anyone out there who gets it, who understands—good luck. Keep fighting. Find your own version of the void. Because even though it’s dark, sometimes that darkness is the only thing that makes you feel like you’re truly alive.