Rewriting my personal best

I have a confession to make; unfortunately, it’s not as scandalous as you might like it to be! But it is more exposing to share than anything that might provoke a bit of blushing.

Here it is… I spent over a year avoiding a bench press.

It doesn’t sound like much of a revelation, does it? But how did a lift I had done many times in the gym become such a monster?

In July 2025 I was attempting a personal best (PB) bench press and the worst thing possible happened. Nothing overly dramatic; I was not crushed beneath the bar. I just couldn’t do it.

Luke stepped in to assist me with a couple of bands on the bar; he still generously recorded my PB but every time I came to the gym and saw that number against my name I believed it hadn’t been earned. The experience shattered my confidence. I felt I had failed.

I started training with Luke just over two years ago. We spent most of my initial movement assessment discussing my thirty years of back problems. Degenerative disc disease and associated damage mean I’ve spent my life protecting my lower back. It was weak; I accepted I would never lift heavy weights from the floor.

I wanted to be strong. It was my only objective when I started strength training. My bench press was so important to me. Without the strength in my lower back, I measured all my achievement on what I could press. I added to my PB steadily; I thought that would continue but anyone who lifts knows when you reach those heavier weights it gets much harder, very quickly!

When I attempted the lift and needed help, my confidence and belief in my strength unravelled. It took a direct route to some deep-seated insecurities about my character too. I saw it as evidence I was unable to achieve goals I set for myself. I felt shame and disappointment; I wasn’t strong. I couldn’t mentally or physically overcome the weight. I knew if I tried again and failed, all my fears would be proven.

I battled with myself for months; each time PB week arrived, I would find a way to avoid bench press day. I knew I had a problem that was growing and it added to the shame that surrounded my fear.

But something beautiful crept in during that time, while I was hiding from that lift. There was a kind of comfort and small pride in just turning up to train. I told myself I made progress every time I walked through that door. So, for a while I did just that, I just turned up. I let the monster take a backseat and focussed on consistently going to my regular sessions.

My trust in Luke grew too and a few months ago I confessed the extent to which I was avoiding this bench press. It was intensely personal and felt like admitting to all my failures. Luke could see how tangled it had become in my self-belief. I promised him I would try again but even I didn’t believe my promise at the time.

I had nightmares in the run up to the lift. I couldn’t control my nerves that morning, I could barely speak. I was terrified of the consequences if I failed again. But I did turn up. Luke has a knack of applying a fine level of accountability without pressure; just the right amount to get me to face my fear. I told myself I was there to just try, that the value was in the attempt, like every session in the gym. But I still approached the bench press with adrenaline in charge of my entire body.

Luke had us warm up with a few lifts, everything felt heavy and I was acutely aware of every plate added. My brain and muscles were desperately trying to assess whether I could lift more. Did I have the scope to get to those heavier weights?

Before we added more weight, Luke told me we were going to ignore the previous PB as it had been recorded such a long time ago. We were going to just see where we got to that day. Disappointment lingered in being so far from what I had previously attempted, but I knew then I’d only be lifting what I could and some of the panic I felt faded.

As I lifted, Luke added small plates to the bar and stayed with me. Flashes of what had happened before made me want to walk away. We hadn’t even gone near the bigger plates, and the bar was moving agonisingly slowly. I distinctly remember thinking I was right; I was weaker. But I kept getting under the bar, until Luke said we were done. It was a relief, I had confronted the monster, and I was proud of that. I was satisfied to record whatever weight I had lifted, and we could work from there.

But Luke told me I had beaten my PB. I have never felt such complete disbelief. I asked Luke how much it weighed and he told me 61kg! The bar was covered in a muddle of tiny plates; he told me he’d done it deliberately so I couldn’t work out what was on there. Sneaky right? Never doubt that man’s cunning!

My mind raced between what had just happened and what I had carried for so long. I started to shake as I let go of stress I’d held onto for days, months – over a year truthfully. I was overwhelmed by hope that the strength I had doubted was still there and a spark of pride that I’d done the lift despite the fear. A flood of gratitude too, for being supported with such compassion through my reattempt; support which began long before the morning I turned up for it. I let go of huge waves of shame and couldn’t stop the tears which followed. I took myself outside as it passed and cried through disbelief, relief and a surging triumph which was to do with much more than just the weight on the bar.

Training with Luke has slowly repaired broken beliefs that have limited me. I believed I could never stick to something hard won, that I was someone who could never apply the dedication needed to reach my dreams. I avoided anything that wasn’t a guaranteed success; I didn’t expose myself by risking failure. Pride and fear meant I failed to step forward, even when I wanted to. In every part of my life, I measured my worth and achievement on outcome alone. But with strength training, even on my worst days, when I didn’t feel strong or motivated, all I had to do was turn up and all those tiny increments of achievement found their way into other parts of my life.

I worked with Amy on my nutrition and lost four stone. More significant than the weight lost was healing a damaged relationship with food which revolved around guilt and shame. The combination of my desire to be stronger and the work I did with Amy created a new love for food as something to make my body feel good. My body changed and it worked better for me; my new strength helped me move without pain. This summer I carried both my daughters over the stones up the beach, wearing a swimsuit, and I felt like a fucking warrior.

Something else happened too, and when I tell people it was because I started strength training at a gym down the road from my house it sounds like fantasy.

I have been hiding from a dream to write fiction for far longer than I hid from my bench press. I bought a beautiful notebook in my late teens and wrote on the front page I am going to write a book. I never wrote another word in it, I tore the offending page out a long time ago, but you can still see where the ink has stained the cover. I kept the book, to torture myself further I suppose.

I did not believe I had the temperament or the kind of brain that could work on something that required such a monumental amount of perseverance and consistency. The longer that dream went unfulfilled, I accumulated evidence I never would be that person.

In May 2025 I signed up for a short course in creative writing. I began writing in tiny fragments. It was still so small and delicate, I told hardly anyone in case I failed at this too. By Christmas I had a plan for a novel, and I started to write that book in January using what my training had taught me; just turning up is the goal, just being there is progress.

I cringed through the first few thousand words I have long since rewritten. I kept going even when it felt like I had to claw every single word from my brain. I had no goal other than to keep coming back to it and that is a fundamental shift in behaviour which was so ingrained; it is a new skill for me.

Another gift from LMF was the people I met; strong people who were brought together so thoughtfully by Luke and who shared the same goals as me. They have been so welcoming and supportive.

The gym was the first place someone said to me, “Oh, you’re the writer,” to which I think I replied, “Oh no! Not really!” But it was said at a time I couldn’t say it myself and I think it captures how a real community is able to support you in ways you don’t expect. I began to believe I could do it and I started to write like I was being chased by something.

I have received such genuine encouragement for the progress I’ve made on the page from those people. I finished the first draft of my novel this summer and in that moment, I felt as if everything was possible. Very much like lifting 61kg off my chest.

Committing to something where success is not guaranteed is the bravest thing I have done. I have a growing hope that I can continue to do so, not because I have magically become a different person, it all still feels painfully scary at times. I live in fear old behaviours will overcome me and I’ll close my laptop one day or walk out of the gym and never come back. The hope comes from knowing I can go back to the small certainty that I just have to turn up. Knowing I can define achievement and progress in the dedication rather than pinning everything on the reward of the outcome.

It is not an understatement to say strength training has profoundly changed how I see myself and with that the course of my life.

When I next lay under the bar on PB day I know I will be shaking but I will tell myself I can push it away, the weight and the fear, because just being there will be the success.