HEY YOU THERE — You know you’re allowed to feel like you suck at first, right?

Hello again,

It’s me — Heidi, Sweat MTL, your Captain of Fun.

Since the first iteration of these newsletters, many of you have reached out to let me know how much you enjoyed reading my little noodle uploads. I love knowing that out there, there are people who relate to these passages of my life. And for those of you who may not relate but are still interested and entertained by learning about a perspective unlike your own — yet one that’s quite common — it soothes a part of me that deeply wants us all to be more curious about one another.

I’m going to go out on a ledge and assume that if you’re reading this, you probably agree that different experiences, perspectives, and opinions are what feed a healthy village. And if you haven’t yet seen the documentary The Biggest Little Farm, I would highly recommend giving it a go. I watched it at the exact moment when everything in the world was changing, and I no longer felt like the spaces I was giving my energy to were in alignment with the direction I wanted to take.

This story helped ignite an idea — one that started with a mix of passion and necessity. It was sloppy and messy, and I had no clue how I could ever put it together. But believe it or not, you were all a part of my vision for a future that I wanted to exist in. The concept of a multi-crop ecosystem resonated deeply with me, and from there I tried my best to learn what I needed to do to create a space that would encourage and invite all kinds of DIFFERENT people who wanted the same thing as me.

I started off being really good at parts of it… and also REALLY BAD at others. And that is the perfect segue into the theme of this month’s newsletter.

This is mostly an accountability love letter — a reminder to myself — and maybe to those of you who are also trying new things — that I’m not going to feel good at everything I do, especially in the beginning.

My recent exposure to IFS therapy has been extremely confronting as I sift through some very complex PTSD (I know I am not alone). There have been moments where I couldn’t see where this work was taking me. I questioned whether I was even good at this. It felt intangible, despite my years of experience in other forms of therapy. And the financial investment made it feel even more urgent — like THIS HAS TO WORK.

Then I had to remind myself… this is exactly like coming to the gym. It’s like building Infinity.

It’s a long-term investment that supports the trajectory I want for my life. The moments that feel big and confronting are actually what I’ve come to call Another Fucking Opportunity for Growth — or AFOG, a very endearing term I learned years ago in couples therapy.

I’m going to feel like I suck at stuff sometimes. And that’s okay. I can survive that feeling. Because if I run from that discomfort, it will take me far longer to work through the things I’m tired of suffering from.

Which brings me to a recent conversation with someone who started coming to the studio a few weeks ago. Like many people, they felt deeply intimidated by fitness spaces. Even after walking through our doors — and connecting with the warm, inviting nature of our little oasis — that anxiety didn’t magically disappear. It stayed with them as they confronted how much their strength and mobility had shifted from a version of themselves they remembered years ago.

Insecurity and self-doubt are feelings I know well, so my heart softened instantly. I wanted to do everything I could to shift those feelings into excitement and pride, because they had already done the hardest thing: after stepping away from this part of themselves for so long… they came back.

And yet, they did something I consider even more difficult than trying to bury their feelings — which can often lead to feeling more alienated and demotivated.

They stayed uncomfortable and gave it a chance.

They sat with discomfort instead of avoiding it.

They got curious instead of shutting down.

They chose, very deliberately, to stay.

After a couple of weeks, I finally had the opportunity to have them in my class. They shared — honestly — how hard it was to see and feel those changes that felt like regression in their body. With that awareness came grief, frustration, and a lot of complicated emotions. It was a privilege to hold space for that moment.

Because the truth is: this experience is not unique.

So many people walk into spaces like this carrying similar stories. And those early moments matter more than we often realize. They can shape whether someone continues — or whether that was the last time we ever see them.

These moments have the power to interrupt long-standing patterns. To open a different path. But they also ask something of us: patience.

The kind of patience that accepts discomfort. That acknowledges fear, vulnerability, and uncertainty as part of the process — not signs that something is wrong, but signs that something is happening.

Because if we wait until we feel ready, confident, or “better,” we only delay the very process that creates those feelings.

And time doesn’t pause for that.

I remind myself often: if something takes time to build, then waiting to start only makes it take longer. Remembering the impermanence of life helps me choose the hard thing now — not later. I think about death a lot, and I’m trying to build a relationship of acceptance around it instead of avoidance. For me, that seems to help clarify what matters.

Perfectionism and performance are both motivating and debilitating. The pressure to be our best is also what stops us from simply showing up. Why is it so hard to let ourselves be imperfect? Why do we feel the need to justify ourselves when we’re still learning?

In the beginning, the excitement of something new can feel intoxicating. Whether it’s a new fitness routine, a new hobby, or even a new relationship, the novelty floods our brain with motivation. But eventually, that rush fades. The endorphins don’t land the same way anymore.

And then we’re faced with the real work — continuing to show up for something we are no longer obsessed with.

How do we do that?

We make a choice.

We decide that relationships — with ourselves and with others — take work. If a space or a person feels aligned and becomes important enough, then it’s worth building connection and structure early on so that when the excitement fades, there’s still something meaningful holding us there.

I happen to be a very particular brand of intense, so diving headfirst into something I like isn’t hard for me. What I didn’t always have was the awareness to build something sustainable during that initial obsession — rather than creating a flame that burns hot and fast and dies the moment I look away.

Understanding those patterns matters. Because once we know them, we can build systems that support us when motivation inevitably shifts.

There’s another layer to this, too.

As someone who moves through the world with multiple intersecting identities — an athlete, an artist, AFAB, queer, someone with ADHD, Jewish, and someone living with complex PTSD — I’ve experienced both a sense of strength in my body and moments where I’ve felt anything but safe within it.

Some of these identities have given me access, opportunity, or confidence. Others have made spaces feel complicated, unpredictable, or at times unsafe.

Both realities can exist at once.

And not everyone has had the same opportunities to build physical confidence or safety in their body as I have. For many — especially women, queer, trans folks, and people of color — these spaces can feel alienating, exclusionary, and sometimes dangerous. Which makes this work even more important.

Access to strength training isn’t equal. And yet the benefits — physical, mental, emotional — are profound. Strength isn’t just about muscle. It’s about autonomy. It’s about resilience. It’s about having a body that supports you through your life.

Progress doesn’t remove struggle. It just changes the shape of it.

New levels bring new problems. And resilience isn’t about toughness — it’s about staying connected and invested, even when things get uncomfortable.

Eventually, the strategies that once worked stop working. When that happens, the real skill isn’t forcing the same approach harder. The real skill is noticing it, assessing what’s happening, and adapting.

Sometimes that means adjusting the pace rather than abandoning the path.

Because the end of the game only happens at the end of the game. Everything else along the way is an opportunity to level up.

So we take ownership of our experience.

We create spaces that feel different.

We show up — for ourselves and for each other.

And we get strong. Real strong.

Not just for now — but for the future we want to live in.

The first three months of starting something new are critical. This is why we say 90 meetings in 90 days. We don’t always have to feel awesome in the process — but we do need something bigger than ourselves to help keep us accountable and keep us coming back.

If any of you out there are struggling, please know you don’t have to do it alone.

This is how we do hard things… we do them together.

Love always,

Heidi Rubin