The Wonderland Journal

Somewhere between the pages of Adolescence and Being a Grown-Up, I must have missed the chapter on making friends. For someone with a six-cylinder social battery, this should have been relatively easy. Years of theater productions, small groups, and social gatherings introduced me to some truly wonderful people. And yet, I was still missing something—a fulfilling sense of community.

It all began when my gym buddy of two years went off to vet school. Extraverts and solo circuits don’t really go hand in hand. This change led me to a slightly austere building I’d passed every day of my life growing up: a white brick rectangle in a strip mall by a busy road.

A coworker had recommended it, so one morning I rolled up at 6:00 a.m. to meet the coach. Dakota—a guy barely older than me with a pile of curls nested on top of his head—was practically a walking Dad Joke Manual.

At the time, my gym vocabulary was limited to heavy poles, adult monkey bars, and round weights. Feeling completely useless, I quickly realized Dakota was the best possible introductory coach. My fitness level sat somewhere between mediocre and not bad, and I was naturally a bit shy in this new environment. It was only in the past few years that I’d learned how to truly push myself in a workout. The 6:00 a.m. class consisted of injured joints, babies in utero, and middle-aged adults just trying to get fit. The down-to-earth vibe created a comfortable space to learn all these new things.

In the early days, my mom joined me for workouts. Dakota handled her teasing and dramatic humor with ease. She was the type to guffaw at his showcase of bar muscle-ups, loudly announcing, “No sir, honey. I can’t be doing that.” The room would erupt in laughter. She followed it up with statements like, “This old lady’s gonna pee herself if she does that.”

Most of the class would step or jump onto the 20-inch box. Mom’s version looked a little different. With genuine applause, Dakota cheered her on as she conquered her first six-inch box jump. 

Always, there is Dakota—encouraging her along.

Then there was the day I convinced her to try banded pull-ups. Let’s just say I’m not the coach for a reason. Thirty seconds later, she was tangled in the band while Dakota and I tried to free her—until she simply fell out of the contraption.

She left a lasting impression with her magnetic personality. To this day, anyone from the gym who knows my mom still asks about her. The kindness in this community runs deep.

In those early classes, we roll out of bed, greet one another with sleepy smiles, and stare vacantly at Dakota as he explains the workout. This particular group requires extra coaching—but that’s what makes it such a joy. There are many laughs shared for a group that should probably still be asleep. What else would you expect at that hour?

The workouts became simply routine. However, my schedule didn’t always allow for an early start. So I decided to try for my first 4:00pm.

Walking into an afternoon class felt like I’d walked into the wrong gym. It was brightly lit, noisy with midday traffic, and so crowded that I was constantly stepping over plates, water bottles, and clamps. So many unfamiliar faces!

Afternoon classes host a more… energetic breed. This group is brawnier, decked out in weightlifting belts, and use their own personal barbells. They’re different from the relaxed, silly crew that gather before nine-to-five jobs.

By then, I’d learned the proper terminology for the poles, monkey bars, and weights. The puzzling language of workouts no longer slowed me down, making it easier to settle into such an experienced space. The encouragement around me was subtle but constant. Surrounded by such a physically trained group, I found myself motivated to lift a little heavier, run a little faster, and push a little harder.

Each day at the gym feels like another brushstroke on a canvas. People who may seem unapproachable cheer you on during a tough workout. In an overcrowded class, someone offers to share their space on the rig. When a movement is difficult, someone more experienced steps in to help. And at the end, without fail, Nice job is exchanged with a fist bump—because you showed up and you finished.

The quantifiable result doesn’t matter. You completed the workout, and that’s why you’re here.

Don’t worry, I still try to get to those morning classes a couple times a week. While I miss the daily routine of the 6:00 a.m. workouts and the silly jokes that often take bizarre turns, the afternoon classes have become the highlight of my day—the place that fills my social battery.

I came here to workout, but I’ve gained so much more. It’s here, in this unexpected space, that my spirit has finally settled into true community.