[STORY] Don’t chase perfection. Chase consistency

I still remember that night like it just happened.

Sweat dripping down my neck, the smell of metal and disinfectant in the gym air, and that same playlist that had been stuck on repeat for two months—Drake, Burna Boy, and a sprinkle of Afrobeats to keep the energy up.

I was on my fifth set of deadlifts, back screaming for mercy, when she walked in.

Black leggings. Oversized hoodie. Headphones bigger than her face.

You know that type of gym-goer who clearly didn’t come to joke? Yeah, that was her.

Everyone in the gym looked once—and pretended not to look again.

Me? I just stared at my reflection in the mirror, pretending to focus on form, but I caught her every move. The way she adjusted her wrist straps. The way she stretched. The quiet confidence.

“You’re lifting too much for your form,” she said suddenly, pulling out one earbud as she walked past me.

I froze mid-rep. “Excuse me?”

She smirked. “You’re ego-lifting. You’ll snap your back before you grow your traps.”

The gym went silent for a second—somebody just dissed me mid-set.

But she wasn’t wrong. My form was trash that night. I had been forcing progress, comparing my lifts to TikTok gym bros instead of trusting the process.

I laughed awkwardly. “You sound like my physiotherapist.”

She shrugged. “Maybe she’s right.” Then she went back to her rack like she didn’t just drop a truth bomb.

That night, I couldn’t stop thinking about her words. Ego-lifting.

It hit harder than any rep.

The next morning, I switched things up. Focused on form, rest, and proper nutrition. I even downloaded a fitness tracking app. The gym became less about showing off and more about growing—physically and mentally.

Every day, she was there too. Always early. Always pushing herself.

We never really spoke—just a silent exchange of nods and mutual respect.

Until one Friday evening.

I was about to leave when I noticed her sitting alone at the smoothie bar, staring into her protein shake like it owed her money.

“You okay?” I asked, walking over.

She forced a smile. “Yeah… just tired.”

I didn’t push, but she eventually sighed. “I started training seriously after my brother passed. He was the one who introduced me to fitness. This place kinda feels like him.”

My chest tightened. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

She nodded slowly. “It’s fine. Lifting helps me keep him close.”

We sat in silence for a while, surrounded by the hum of gym machines and distant laughter. That’s when I realized—fitness wasn’t just about muscle or strength. It was about healing. About rebuilding what life had broken.

Weeks passed. We started working out together—spotting each other, sharing meal prep hacks, even roasting bad gym playlists.

She’d say, “Don’t chase perfection, chase consistency.”

And every time I wanted to quit, she’d remind me, “You started this for you. Keep showing up for you.”

Our progress skyrocketed. My form got better, my discipline sharper. People started noticing. “Bro, you’ve changed,” one of my friends said. “Your physique is different. Your mindset too.”

But the truth? It wasn’t the weights changing me—it was her.

Then one morning, she didn’t show up.

Not the next day either. Or the next week.

I checked her socials—nothing new. The gym felt colder. Quieter.

I asked the receptionist if she’d canceled her membership. She just said softly, “She’s been in an accident… car crash on Third Mainland Bridge.”

I didn’t even hear the rest. My pre-workout buzz turned to static.

For the next few days, I couldn’t touch a dumbbell. Couldn’t look at her rack. Couldn’t listen to our shared playlist.

But then I remembered her voice:

“Don’t chase perfection. Chase consistency.”

So I went back. Alone this time. Same rack. Same playlist. Same hoodie she once wore, now draped around my gym bag.

And as I pulled that first rep, I swear—I felt her beside me.

Now, every time someone asks about my fitness transformation or how I stayed motivated through bodybuilding, I just smile and say,

“It’s not just about lifting weights. It’s about lifting yourself—especially when the person who taught you how to stand is no longer there.”

I still train at that same gym. I still use her words as my pre-workout mantra.

And every time I hit a new PR, I look up and whisper,

“This one’s for you.”