I Hit the iFitness Gym to Escape Depression—But I Wasn’t Ready for What I Found There

I still remember the first time I walked into iFitness Gym in Yaba.

It was 6:42 PM on a rainy Tuesday. My hoodie was soaked, but not from rain—just sweat, anxiety, and three months of battling post-breakup depression.

I didn’t come to the gym because I wanted to get fit. I came because I was angry. Angry at myself. Angry at her. Angry at how small I felt when she said, “You’ve let yourself go.”

The gym smelled like disinfectant and testosterone. You know that unique scent—part metal, part ego. Mirrors everywhere. Guys throwing around dumbbells like they were fighting demons. Music blasting Burna Boy‘s “Big 7.”

I whispered to myself, “You’re not here to impress anyone. Just survive the first session.”

At the reception, a tall, dark-skinned guy with muscles that had muscles smiled and said, “First time?”

I nodded, still drenched.

“Name?” he asked.

“Lawrence,” I replied.

He gave me a form. I scribbled through it quickly, then walked in.

The first person I noticed was her—tank top, afro puff, lifting weights like they owed her money. She had headphones on, completely zoned out. Her form? Perfect. Her energy? Electric.

I tried not to stare.

I started with the treadmill—3km, and I was dying.

Chest heaving. Heart pounding. Shirt soaked. Pride hurting.

And that’s when she walked over.

“You good?” she asked, pulling out one AirPod.

I nodded, trying to breathe. “Trying to outrun my past.”

She laughed. “We all are. But don’t die trying. Come, let me show you how to stretch that out.”

That was how it began.

Every evening, we trained together. She introduced herself as Zara. A final-year physiotherapy student, part-time fitness coach, full-time badass.

She became my accountability partner. Not just in the gym, but in life.

“Add more protein.”

“Stop skipping cardio.”

“Stop stalking your ex’s Instagram.”

“Drink water. Heal.”

Our routine? Monday: Push. Tuesday: Pull. Wednesday: Rest. Thursday: Legs. Friday: Core + Chaos.

She taught me how to do proper deadlifts. I taught her how to dance shoki without looking like a baby giraffe.

We laughed. We argued about gym music. We competed on plank time.

Weeks turned into months.

I lost 13kg. My arms grew. So did my confidence.

But the real transformation? It was internal.

I stopped waking up feeling worthless.

I stopped checking if my ex was online.

I started loving the man in the mirror again.

And Zara… became more than a gym buddy.

She became the girl I thought I was waiting for.

One Friday night, after an intense HIIT session, I finally built up the courage.

“Zara,” I said as we sat cooling down by the gym steps, “I think I’m ready.”

She looked at me. “Ready for what?”

“To stop healing and start loving again. With you.”

There was a pause.

A long one.

She smiled gently and said, “Lawrence… I’m moving to Canada next week.”

My world froze—just like that moment on the treadmill three months ago.

“I got a scholarship. It’s been in the works since last year,” she added. “I didn’t want to distract you. You were healing.”

I wanted to scream. I wanted to ask her to stay.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I walked her home in silence.

We hugged at her gate. No promises. No regrets.

Just one final whisper: “Thank you for saving me.”

She smiled. “You did that yourself. I just spotted your set.”

Today, it’s been eight months.

I still train five days a week.

My body? Better than ever.

My heart? Still healing, but stronger.

I now help others in the gym—especially the ones who look lost on day one.

Sometimes I catch myself watching the door, half-hoping she’ll walk in with those afro puffs and her no-nonsense face.

But she doesn’t.

Still, every time I deadlift, I hear her voice in my head:

“Chest out. Back straight. Breathe. And don’t forget—you’re not just lifting weights. You’re lifting yourself out of who you used to be.”