Why going to a women-only gym was the best decision I made for my fitness journey

Let’s be honest: a gym can be a very intimidating place.

The loud grunting. Plates clashing onto the floor. Someone hovering nearby. Queuing for machines during peak hour and the pressure of rushing through a set because others are waiting. As an introvert, it felt like my personal nightmare.

Every gym session required a pep talk beforehand. Add on figuring out how to use machines properly and learning correct form... each visit felt less like a workout and more like a social obstacle course.

I told myself the anxiety would eventually pass. After all, millions of people go to the gym every day. Surely I was overthinking it? But week after week I’d show up stressed; scanning the room for a quiet corner where I could stick to a pair of dumbbells and keep to myself. 

A trick I even had was to rush to the treadmill first, using those few minutes to mentally map out where I’d go next and which equipment I’d use. My breaking point came when a man approached me mid-set to correct my form. Before I could respond, he placed his fingers on my back without my consent to demonstrate the movement, then continued watching me to ensure I followed his advice. Whether his intentions were good or not, I felt violated and my body immediately went into fight-or-flight mode.

That’s when I realised I desperately needed a place where I could make mistakes and navigate the exercises by myself. Otherwise, I was going to be stuck in my head worrying about being judged rather than actually exercising. Or worse, give up on my fitness journey. But what other options did I have?

Back to training alone

Before commercial gyms, home workouts were my default. But after years of rotating through the dumbbell workouts and knocking into my furniture, I was ready for something more.

Gym pods felt like the perfect middle ground. Individual 24-hour gyms to workout alone? Sign me up. For the first time, I could experiment with equipment and machines I had been too intimidated to try in public, such as cables, smith machines, and barbells. 

I could learn my basic compound lifts in peace. I could take as long as I needed to adjust the machines, watch tutorials between sets, make mistakes without feeling self-conscious, and play my music on a loud speaker. But there were a few downsides: they weren’t exactly student-budget friendly. 

Because bookings were charged per 30 minutes, costs added up quickly as I began training longer and more frequently. I could realistically only afford an hour booking twice to thrice a week, which meant rushing through workouts to maximise every minute or cutting sessions short. Popular slots were snapped up fast, forcing me to plan my week around availability.

As I was enjoying and getting into lifting more, I wanted to take my time and do more than the limited machines. And as much as I loved the privacy, working out alone started to feel, well, a bit lonely. Perhaps what I truly wanted wasn’t isolation, but a community where I didn’t feel out of place.   

The best of both worlds

It wasn’t until an Instagram advertisement for a women-only gym appeared on my feed and flipped a switch in my brain – I hadn’t even realised such gyms existed, but I signed up for a trial almost immediately.

From the moment I stepped inside, the atmosphere felt different. Even during peak hours, the space was calm. Women were scattered across the room, all focused on their own work out. For the next four years, that gym became my safe haven. I stopped worrying about looking inexperienced; I was more comfortable making mistakes (and falling over at times), filmed my sets shamelessly, and tried different machines like it was my playground. No one hovered around waiting for equipment nor gave unsolicited advice, stares or comments. I didn’t feel like I had to justify my presence there.

Most importantly, it made my fitness journey comfortable, I actually looked forward to my workouts. Without the mental noise, I could focus on the exercise itself, and was able to teach my body and mind to push past my perceived limits. The confidence I gained inside the gym slowly spilled into other areas of my life too.

There was also an unexpected sense of community. Occasionally, I’d strike up conversations with other friendly members – complimenting each other’s activewear, talking about our health journeys and giving each other tips. The gym even had a board where members could leave encouraging Post-it notes for one another. It was exactly what I had been searching for: the privacy of a gym pod combined with the sense of belonging that comes from sharing a space with others.

The catch? The gym was actually a 45-minute commute from my home. Yet for years, I’d happily make the journey five times a week on top of work and school commitments.That’s how much I fell in love with the environment. 

The freedom to be a beginner

It’s been nearly eight months since I returned to a regular co-ed gym after my women’s gym branch closed, and seven years since I’ve started my fitness journey. And while I’ve become far more confident than the nervous teenager who first stepped into a weight room, I would be lying if I said I’ve completely shaken the gym anxiety: I still need my headphones drowning out any surrounding sound, I avoid asking to share equipment and occasionally freeze when someone asks how many sets I have left.

But the difference is that I no longer doubt whether I belong there. Looking back, I don’t think I would have developed this confidence had I started in a traditional gym environment. Learning something new is vulnerable enough on its own. Doing so in a room that feels male-dominated, where everyone appears to know exactly what they’re doing, can make that vulnerability feel even heavier.

So when peers ask me for recommendations, I will always preach about starting at a women’s gym. They gave me the space to be a beginner, to make mistakes and to grow comfortable taking up space. And sometimes, that psychological safety is exactly the missing ingredient in women’s fitness journeys.