In the Gym
No progress needed.
The fluorescent lights of the gym buzzed, a steady drone that had become part of Maria’s evening ritual. At 6:15 p.m. she pushed through the glass doors, gym bag slung over one shoulder, the same navy duffel she’d bought on clearance the month after the diagnosis.
Three months now, same machines, same order, same time.
First the leg press. She loaded the plates, sixty pounds on each side, settled into the seat, and pushed. Twelve reps, three sets. No rush. No grimace. Just breath in, breath out, legs stretching out straight. Then the lat pulldown, then chest press, and the exercises that didn’t require machinery. The rhythm was a small promise she’d made to herself when the chemo finally ended and the divorce papers were signed: We keep moving. That’s all. We don’t have to get better. We just have to stay here.
The first time someone tried to help was a Tuesday in October. A guy in an old t-shirt, biceps pumped, veins bulging, leaned over the divider.
“You know progressive overload’s the key, right? Bump it five pounds next week, and you’ll blow up.” He grinned, expecting her to heap praises on his profound wisdom.
Maria wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist and smiled.
“Believe it or not, I’m not trying to improve,” she said. “I’m trying to maintain. This body carried me through divorce and chemo. I’m just maintaining that equilibrium, if that makes sense.”
He blinked once, twice, and then a dozen times. The grin slipped. He nodded, muttered something about form being solid anyway, and drifted back to the squat rack.
Word about Maria spread through the gym the way gossip normally does. A woman in black leggings tried next, phone in hand, tracked her every rep.
“Free weights would hit the stabilizers harder,” she told Maria during a rest period.
Same smile. Same words.
The woman paused, thumb hovering over her screen.
“That’s… actually really beautiful,” she said softly, then walked away without offering more help.
After that, the interruptions stopped. The front desk kid started holding the door a beat longer. The guy who blasted R&B music through his headphones turned the volume down when Maria passed. No one offered her advice anymore. No one asked for her Insta or X username.
She finished her last set of jumping jacks, wiped her face with a towel, and shouldered her bag. She didn’t check her reflection in the glass doors. She didn’t need to. The woman who walked out was the same one who walked in. Maria was still here, still breathing, and still honoring the peace she’d made with her body.
Tomorrow she’d be back at 6:15 p.m. Same machines. Same order. Same time. Same routine.
The gym would be a little gentler for it.