The time I thought I'd get fit and ended up working out in my pyjamas

 I’ve always liked working out. Back in college, I was the person who genuinely enjoyed the post-exercise burn, swore by stretches, and believed a good playlist could turn a walk into a therapy session. But somewhere between the lockdowns, online classes, and turning into a full-time homebody during COVID, my fitness routine slipped into a coma.

But this year, I decided it was time to bounce back. A new, upgraded version of me was going to rise- one that meal prepped, ran marathons (or at least jogged), and owned more workout gear than excuses. I wanted to feel energised again. That glow people talk about? I wanted it back.

So my first step was to start jogging. But in true dramatic fashion, I didn’t just take a casual walk in the neighbourhood. I bought an expensive monthly pass to a local jogging park. The logic? “If I pay a bomb for it, I’ll obviously go.” I’d read somewhere that spending on fitness makes you more committed. Whoever wrote that clearly didn’t know me.

I went three times. Maybe four, if you count the one where I turned around after five minutes because I forgot my earphones. The rest of the mornings? I had very convincing reasons. Too cloudy. Too sunny. Too sleepy. Too sore from doing nothing.

I wasn’t ready to give up. I told myself maybe I’m not a park jogger anymore, maybe I’ve evolved. Maybe I’m a gym person now. You know, someone who lifts weights, uses words like “core strength,” and casually mentions their rep count.

And then began the gym hunt. I checked out a bunch of places, some felt too intense, some were weirdly empty, and one had such loud music I thought I’d entered a nightclub. Finally, I found the perfect gym: modern equipment, two-minute walk from my house, and not too crowded. I walked in, all confident and ready to hand over my money. A new era was about to begin.

And then the guy at the desk smiled apologetically and said,

“We’re shutting down from today. Permanently.”

They were literally packing up machines behind him. I just stood there, blinking, trying not to take it personally. Was the universe hinting that I was not meant to lift?

Honestly, it killed a good chunk of my motivation. But I still had a little hope left. So, like any modern warrior, I turned to YouTube. I searched “15-minute workouts,” “no equipment home exercises,” “workouts in small rooms,” and even “how to not die doing burpees.” I made a playlist. I even colour-coded a digital schedule. It was giving ✨discipline✨.

Of course, day one, I couldn’t find my yoga mat. Day two, my dog thought I was playing and sat on me mid-ab crunch. Day three, I got distracted mid-workout by a notification and accidentally took a 45-minute break watching food reels. But strangely enough this version started working.

I wasn’t the same girl I used to be, but I was moving again. I worked out in pyjamas. I followed random instructors with names like Chloe Ting and Roberta. I paused to catch my breath every five minutes. But I was doing it imperfectly, yes, but consistently.

What I learnt: You don’t need a gym pass, the perfect gear, or a fancy routine. You just need to start, however messy or small it looks. I didn’t get the glow overnight, but I did get the endorphins. And honestly? That felt even better.