I didn't exercise until I was 22.

For the first 22 years of my life, I was not a person who moved. Not really. A bit of yoga at home when the mood struck. A couple of nervous attempts at the gym that never lasted longer than the membership I'd already stopped using.

Exercise felt like something other people understood — a language I'd never been taught and assumed I'd missed the window to learn. I wasn't unfit on purpose. I just genuinely didn't know where to begin, and every attempt confirmed the quiet story I'd told myself: this isn't for me.

Then, almost by accident, that story fell apart.

I happened to work near a pole studio. One day, with a friend and not much of a plan, I decided to try a class. I had no expectations — if anything, I expected to be bad at it and a little embarrassed.

What I got instead was a teacher who made me feel completely safe. Supported, not judged. Like it was okay to be a beginner, okay to be weak, okay to not know what I was doing. That feeling changed everything. I walked out hooked.

Hooked turned into four, five times a week. I added flexibility classes. I started looking forward to it the way you look forward to seeing friends. And somewhere in there, the thing I'd been so intimidated by quietly stopped being scary.

So I kept pulling the thread. I walked into a gym — the place that used to defeat me — and it wasn't a mystery anymore. I tried calisthenics. I tried more sports than I can count. Each one opened another door. Movement had gone from a closed world to one I got to explore however I wanted.

What I think about now is how close I came to never walking into that first class. How many people are sitting exactly where I was at 22 — certain that being strong, or flexible, or athletic is something other people get to be.

It isn't. I'm living proof that it's built, not born, and that it can start at any age, from absolute zero.