Author: carl

I should probably start this with a confession. I’m the proud owner of what my girlfriend has sarcastically dubbed “the Museum of Fitness Optimism” – an ever-growing collection of exercise equipment that enters my home with fanfare and eventually blends into the background like oddly shaped furniture.

Last week, she nearly tripped over the resistance bands I’d left curled up like synthetic snakes on the living room floor. “For God’s sake, Ben! Another casualty for your fitness graveyard?” she muttered, kicking them aside.

She wasn’t wrong. The bands had joined the ranks of abandoned exercise gear scattered throughout our two-bedroom flat – victims of my enthusiastic but ultimately short-lived fitness commitments.

I’ve been thinking about this peculiar habit of mine – this cycle of fitness enthusiasm followed by equipment abandonment. By my rough calculation, I’ve spent somewhere north of £1,200 on various contraptions and gadgets over the past five years. That’s a lot of money for what essentially amounts to expensive coat hangers and dust collectors.

The treadmill was my first major investment. I remember the day it arrived – a hulking beast that the delivery men struggled to maneuver up the narrow staircase to our flat. “Where you putting this, mate?” one asked, sweat beading on his forehead.

“Spare bedroom,” I replied confidently. “Converting it to a home gym.”

The delivery guy exchanged knowing glances with his colleague. I later realized this was probably the look of men who regularly deliver exercise equipment to optimistic buyers, silently betting on how long before it would become furniture.

For the first two weeks, I was religious about it. Every morning, 6:30 AM, I’d drag myself out of bed, pull on my running shorts, and pound away for thirty minutes while watching the news. By week three, I was hitting the snooze button. By week four, the treadmill had become an expensive clothes rack, draped with shirts and jeans I was too lazy to put away properly.

Now it sits in the corner of our spare room, occasionally used when I’m feeling particularly guilty but mostly serving as an oversized paperweight for tax documents and old magazines I keep meaning to recycle.

The exercise bike came next – a more “practical” option, I told myself. It was smaller, less noisy (the neighbors below had complained about the treadmill’s thundering), and I could watch Netflix while using it. Perfect solution!

Except the seat was uncomfortable. Really uncomfortable. Like sitting-on-a-brick uncomfortable. I bought a gel seat cover. That helped, but then I discovered that cycling while watching TV isn’t as easy as it looks. Either I was pedaling too hard to concentrate on the show, or I was so engrossed in the show that I realized I’d stopped pedaling altogether.

The bike lasted longer than the treadmill – about six weeks of regular use. Now it’s positioned near the window, where I occasionally drape damp towels over it to dry. My girlfriend has placed a small potted fern on its console, which I think is her passive-aggressive way of officially converting it to furniture.

Oh, and then there were the kettlebells. Heavy, Soviet-looking things that promised to transform my body with swings and lifts and other movements that looked simple on YouTube but somehow became complicated physics equations when I attempted them. I bought a set of three – 8kg, 12kg, and 16kg.

The 8kg gets used sometimes. The 12kg serves as a doorstop for the bathroom when the window’s open and creating a draft. The 16kg? I’m not entirely sure I’ve ever lifted it beyond getting it into the house. It lives under the coffee table now, where I occasionally stub my toe on it and curse past-Ben’s optimism.

What’s strange is that I’m not naturally a spendthrift person. In most areas of my life, I’m fairly careful with money. I research purchases, compare prices, and generally avoid impulse buys. But something happens to my brain when I read fitness articles or watch transformation videos. There’s a temporary rewiring where I genuinely believe that this time will be different – that this particular piece of equipment will be the one that transforms me from somewhat-soft office worker to the cover model of Men’s Health.

I mentioned this to my friend Jake while we were having pints last weekend. He laughed so hard he nearly spat his beer out. “Mate, you’ve got what my dad calls ‘the catalogue dream,’” he said, wiping his mouth. “You’re not buying fitness equipment; you’re buying the fantasy of a different life.”

That hit uncomfortably close to home. Because he’s right – when I order a new piece of equipment, what I’m really ordering is the imagined future version of myself who uses it consistently. I’m not purchasing an ab-roller; I’m purchasing six-pack abs. I’m not buying dumbbells; I’m buying bigger arms. It’s magical thinking disguised as a practical purchase.

The ab-roller, by the way, is currently serving as a toy for my girlfriend’s cat, who enjoys pushing it across the hardwood floors at 3 AM.

The yoga mat has probably fared the best of all my fitness purchases. It’s been used somewhat regularly, though more often for impromptu naps than actual yoga. There’s something comforting about lying on a squishy mat in the middle of the living room, supposedly about to exercise, but instead staring at the ceiling and contemplating life’s great mysteries – like why I keep buying exercise equipment I don’t use.

My most recent acquisition – just three months ago – was a pull-up bar that fits in the doorframe. Installation required no tools and took literally minutes. It promised to be the most efficient way to build upper body strength with minimal time investment. Perfect for someone like me with a demanding job and limited free time!

I used it exactly seven times before the inevitable happened. Now it hangs there in the doorway between the hallway and kitchen, a sort of fitness memorial that we duck under multiple times daily. Occasionally, if I’m feeling particularly sprightly after my morning coffee, I’ll do a single pull-up on my way to get breakfast. One. And then I’ll feel simultaneously proud of myself for using it and pathetic that a single pull-up now constitutes a workout.

My girlfriend has suggested – multiple times – that we could reclaim substantial living space by getting rid of some of this equipment. Logically, I know she’s right. But there’s an emotional hurdle to clearing out the fitness graveyard: getting rid of the equipment feels like admitting defeat. Like I’m not just abandoning the equipment, but abandoning the better, fitter version of myself I wanted to become.

Plus, there’s the secondary guilt of money wasted. Getting rid of a £300 treadmill that I used for a total of maybe six hours feels like setting fire to £50 notes. At least while it’s sitting there, taking up space, there’s the theoretical possibility I might use it again.

But the truth, which I’m finally beginning to accept, is that it’s not about the equipment at all. My friend Jake was right about the catalogue dream, but it goes deeper than that. Each purchase is a way of outsourcing motivation – as if the mere presence of a treadmill will somehow generate the discipline I need to use it regularly.

I’ve started to realize that the people I know who exercise consistently rarely have elaborate home gym setups. They’ve got maybe one or two basic items, or they just use their body weight, or they go for runs outside. The equipment isn’t creating the habit; the habit exists independently of the equipment.

This revelation hit me last Tuesday when I was stepping around my adjustable dumbbells (currently serving as extremely expensive paperweights next to the sofa) to reach the remote control. I’ve been approaching this all backward. I’ve been trying to buy my way into a fitness routine instead of building the routine first and then supporting it with equipment as needed.

So I’ve made a new rule for myself: no new fitness purchases for one year. And if, after three consecutive months of consistent bodyweight exercises, I still feel I need equipment, I have to use what I already own before buying anything new.

I’ve also designated Sunday afternoons as “actually use the stuff you already have” time – thirty minutes of intentionally using one piece of abandoned equipment. Last Sunday, I dusted off the resistance bands. My arms were sore on Monday, a subtle reminder from my body that the equipment works perfectly fine; it’s the user that’s been malfunctioning.

My girlfriend is skeptical about this new plan, and fair enough – she’s witnessed the cycle too many times. “Just sell some of it,” she suggested again this morning, tripping over the foam roller that has somehow migrated to the bathroom doorway.

“I will,” I promised. “If I don’t use it in the next month, it goes.”

She raised an eyebrow so high it nearly disappeared into her hairline.

“I’m serious this time,” I insisted.

“You said that about the ab wheel,” she reminded me, nudging it with her toe where it sat next to the cat’s food bowl.

She has a point. My track record isn’t great. But there’s something different this time – a willingness to confront the uncomfortable truth that no purchase will ever be a substitute for consistent effort. My collection of abandoned fitness equipment isn’t just gathering dust; it’s teaching me something important about how lasting change actually happens.

And if nothing else, it’s given me a very expensive lesson in human psychology and the economics of optimism. Next time I feel the urge to buy equipment, I’ll just walk around my flat and count the items I already own that promised to change my life.

Though I did see this really interesting weighted jump rope online yesterday that’s supposed to be amazing for cardiovascular health and shoulder definition…

No. No, Ben. We’re not doing this again.

At least not until I’ve worn out something I already own.

I’ve always found it a bit ironic, you know, the way I obsessively check how many likes my meditation selfie gets. There I am, cross-legged on my yoga mat, eyes peacefully closed, caption reading “Finding my center #innerpeace #mindfulness” – and then I spend the next two hours refreshing the post to track its performance.

God, that’s embarrassing to admit.

But let’s be honest here – I’m not alone in this weird contradiction, am I? We’re all out there preaching about disconnecting while simultaneously tracking our follower counts like they’re vital signs.

I remember the exact moment this paradox really hit me. It was about three years ago, during this 10-day silent meditation retreat I’d signed up for. I’d been banging on to everyone about needing to “reset” and “reconnect with myself” for months beforehand. My Instagram stories were full of posts about digital detox and the value of silence. I even bought a special journal with “Journey Within” embossed on the cover (£28.99 from that fancy stationery shop – ridiculous, I know).

Day one at the retreat, I handed over my phone like I was donating a kidney. The staff member – this serene-looking woman with impossibly clear skin – smiled knowingly as I asked, “Just to confirm, there’s absolutely no way to check messages, right?” like some kind of digital junkie negotiating my fix.

“That’s the point,” she said, sliding my phone into a labeled envelope.

The first three days were actual hell. I’d find myself reaching for my phantom phone about 400 times an hour. During meditation sessions, instead of focusing on my breath like we were instructed, I kept composing the post I’d write when I got my phone back: “10 days of silence changed me forever. Here’s how…” I was literally planning the engagement strategy for my spiritual experience while still in the middle of it.

On day four, during an afternoon meditation, I had what our guide might have called a breakthrough but what I’d call a proper moment of mortifying self-awareness. There I was, supposedly doing the inner work, but actually mentally calculating how many followers I might gain from this spiritual journey if I played it right.

I started laughing – which, by the way, is frowned upon in silent meditation halls. The guide shot me this look that somehow conveyed both compassion and “shut up” simultaneously. But I couldn’t help it. The absurdity was too much. I was seeking validation for… not seeking validation. Talk about missing the bloody point.

Tom (my therapist – yes, I have one, and yes, he’s worth every overpriced penny) says this contradiction is pretty much the defining condition of our generation. We’re desperately seeking authentic experiences while simultaneously packaging them for external consumption. We want to be present, but we also want everyone to know just how present we’re being.

“It’s like you’re performing mindfulness rather than practicing it,” he told me during our session after I got back from the retreat. I remember feeling personally attacked by this observation – which, of course, meant he was spot on.

This isn’t just a me problem, though. Look at any wellness influencer’s feed. There they are, journaling about gratitude while perfectly positioned near a window with ideal natural lighting. Or meditating on a cliff at sunset – who brought the photographer along for that spiritual experience, I wonder?

I’ve got this mate, Sarah, who’s recently gotten into what she calls her “spiritual fitness journey.” Last month she invited me to this sound bath healing session that cost £45 for the privilege of lying on the floor of a community center while someone banged gongs around us. Before we even got through the door, she was setting up her phone against her water bottle to film her arrival for her Instagram followers.

“Don’t you think it’s a bit… contradictory?” I asked her. “Filming your spiritual experience for social media validation?”

She looked at me like I’d just suggested we kick a puppy. “It’s not about validation,” she explained, adjusting the angle of her phone. “I’m just sharing my journey to inspire others.”

Right.

To be fair, though, who am I to judge? I’m just as bad. I’ve got a meditation app that gives me little achievement badges for consistency. I literally get a dopamine hit from an animated shooting star because I sat still and breathed for ten minutes. And God help me, I care about those digital stars. I once meditated at 11:58 pm, nearly falling asleep sitting up, just to maintain my “21-day streak.” Nothing says inner peace quite like frantically squeezing in mindfulness before a midnight deadline.

The thing is, I actually do feel better when I meditate or journal or go for walks without my phone. These practices genuinely help. But then I go and corrupt them by turning them into content, or achievements, or ways to impress people at dinner parties. “Oh, you’re stressed? I meditate for 30 minutes every morning, it’s literally changed my life.” (Conveniently leaving out the fact that I spend 20 of those 30 minutes making mental shopping lists and thinking about what to caption my next post.)

My most ridiculous moment – and I can’t believe I’m admitting this – was probably when I found myself redoing my “casual” mindful walking video three times because the lighting wasn’t flattering in the first two attempts. There I was, supposedly engaging in a practice all about being present and accepting what is, while rejecting reality because my double chin was too visible from that angle. The irony was completely lost on me at the time.

I’ve been wondering lately why we do this to ourselves. Why can’t the private experience be enough? Why do I feel this compulsion to broadcast my personal growth like it’s a product I’m selling?

Part of it, I think, is that we’ve been trained to document everything. Life doesn’t quite feel real unless it’s been captured, filtered, and shared. The external validation has become proof that our experiences matter.

And there’s something else, something a bit deeper and more uncomfortable. For me at least, there’s this fear that if I do all this inner work and nobody knows about it, it somehow counts less. Like that old philosophical question about the tree falling in the forest – if I become more mindful but don’t get any recognition for it, have I really changed at all?

Tom says this is because we’ve confused self-improvement with self-promotion. We want the benefits of spiritual growth, but we also want the social capital that comes from being seen as someone on a spiritual journey.

About six months after my meditation retreat fiasco, I decided to try a different approach. I deleted my social media apps for a month. Not permanently – I’m not a monster – just a temporary experiment. I didn’t post about doing it beforehand (the ultimate sacrifice). I told approximately three people, and even then I was annoying about it. “Just so you know, if you need me, you’ll have to actually call or text because I’m taking a break from social…” like I was embarking on some grand pilgrimage.

The first week was predictably awful. I kept having these thoughts or experiences and automatically thinking, “This would make a great post” – then feeling weirdly bereft when I remembered I couldn’t share it. It was like all these little moments suddenly had nowhere to go, no purpose.

But then something shifted. By week three, I started having experiences without mentally narrating them for an invisible audience. I’d see a beautiful sunset and just… look at it. Not frame it for a photo. Not think about how to describe it. Just experience it directly, without the filter of “how will I package this moment later?”

It was properly disorienting at first, and then quietly revolutionary.

Don’t get me wrong – I went back to social media after the month ended. I’m not claiming some profound permanent transformation. The first thing I did was post about my “social media detox insights” (I know, I know). But something had changed. I became more aware of that voice that’s always performing, always seeking validation.

These days, I’m trying to find a middle path. I still meditate, but I’ve stopped posting about it. I still journal, but I don’t share aesthetically pleasing flat-lays of my journaling setup. It’s not perfect – just last week I caught myself considering downloading my meditation app statistics to share as part of some “wellness Wednesday” nonsense.

But I’m working on keeping some experiences just for me. Not because I’m above seeking validation (clearly I’m not), but because I’ve started to recognize how the constant performance changes the experience itself.

Maybe true inner peace isn’t found through perfectly filtered yoga poses or inspirational captions. Maybe it’s in those small, private moments that nobody else ever sees or validates. The quiet achievements that don’t come with likes or followers. The growth that happens when no one’s watching.

Or maybe I’m still missing the point entirely. Maybe someday I’ll reach such profound enlightenment that I won’t feel compelled to write articles about my spiritual journey for strangers to read.

But I’m definitely not there yet. So… did you like this piece? Please let me know in the comments below, and don’t forget to subscribe for more content like this! (Just kidding. Sort of.)