Do I Dislike Cute Exercise Gear? (ep 25)

I didn’t expect this to be the thing I uncovered during my 30-day movement experiment, but here I am: somewhere between dumbbell reps and editing my own voice for the 25th day in a row, discovering a weird little streak of resentment toward cute workout gear. And the more I heard myself say it, the more I realized I needed to sit with it instead of letting it float by like background noise.

→ New here? I’m sharing 30 days of honest movement reflections as I rebuild strength in my 50s.

Did I say that?

I record a lot of these episodes while I’m actually moving. Today’s was during my dumbbell workout; the overhead variations, the slow lifts, the huffing and puffing that happens when 2.5 kilos suddenly feels like ten because I’m paying attention to form. Something about exercising while talking always cracks open a different part of my brain. The filter drops. The truth spills out. I think more clearly when I’m using my body.

While I edited the recording, I noticed something that surprised me: every time I mentioned pretty workout clothing, my tone wasn’t neutral. It wasn’t curious. It wasn’t mildly annoyed. It sounded… disdainful. Like I had a problem with it.

That was confusing because I don’t actually dislike cute workout clothing. I’m not anti-color or anti-fun or anti-intentional outfits. I just don’t wear a lot of that stuff right now, mostly because I’ve been living in super basic clothes for years, especially during my time in Denmark when everything I bought ended up being black or neutral simply because nothing else fit me the way I wanted. But I don’t have any real issue with the clothing itself.

So why did I sound so irritated?

The more I listened, the more I realized it wasn’t about the gear. It was about what I associate with the gear. I’ve watched people prioritize looking good over doing what feels good or supportive for their bodies. Not everyone. Not most people. But enough that the story stuck in my brain.

At one point during an overhead lift, I said out loud, without planning to, something I hadn’t fully acknowledged:

I carry resentment toward people who seem to prioritize aesthetics over accessibility or honesty in fitness.

Not resentment toward them as individuals… but toward the idea I’ve built around them. The idea that exercise is supposed to be performed rather than practiced. That it’s about appearing strong instead of building strength in real time. That it’s about looking the part rather than showing up with the body I actually have.

But as soon as that thought was out of my mouth, I recognized it wasn’t really about anyone else. It was about me.

The deeper layer

When I finally said it plainly, it all clicked. After years of illness, injury, and hormonal chaos, I think of movement in a very specific way:-function over form.-comfort over coordination.-showing up over looking good doing it.

So when I see someone in coordinated, polished fitness outfits, my reaction isn’t about them. It’s about the part of me that still remembers feeling like I didn’t belong in those spaces. The part of me that felt excluded from the “fitness world” because my body wasn’t behaving the way I wanted it to. The part of me that worried I didn’t look like someone who was “allowed” to be there.

It turns out that my resentment wasn’t about cute workout gear.It was about the version of me who felt invisible in those settings.

The truth is: a lot of people wearing beautiful, intentional workout gear have worked extremely hard to get where they are. They deserve to feel good in their bodies and in their clothing. Many of them are kind, encouraging, and offering genuinely helpful content. I even follow a few of them myself.

The issue was never their clothing, it was my projection.

I realized that the story I’ve been carrying is this:that fitness only “counts” if my body looks a certain way while doing it.

And because I didn’t always feel like I matched that image, I found something superficial to push against: the gear. The aesthetic. The outfit. It was easier than admitting the vulnerability underneath.

But this 30-day streak is stripping away those old narratives. When I record myself moving, actually moving, every day, I can’t hide behind assumptions anymore. I hear the patterns. I hear the tone shifts. And then I get to choose what to keep and what to let go.

This one? I’m letting it go.

My resentment doesn’t protect me. It doesn’t help me move more consistently. It doesn’t make me stronger.It pulls attention away from what I’m genuinely trying to build: a better relationship with my body.

So from this point forward, if I slip into that bitter tone about cute workout clothes again, I’m deleting the line. I don’t want to feed energy into something that no longer serves me.

The onl