We all have our ‘thing’. Meditation, ocean swims, a vent on the phone – that thing you do when you need to let off steam, process something, or escape the daily grind.

For me, it’s working out. Exercise has always been my refuge; the guaranteed antidote to stress, mum rage (it’s a thing), or even just an energy slump.

So when we moved cities recently, one of the first things I did was book myself into a class at our nearest studio. Excited to mix up my routine, me and my grip socks showed up to a fancy warehouse conversion featuring a lethal blend of strength and cardio. The class was brutal – in the best way. I left red-faced and jelly-legged, feeling accomplished and far more zen.

But the class wasn’t the only thing that was brutal.

In a past life I was a fitness instructor, so I’m pretty keyed in to the general mood of the exercise industry. And I thought we were well past the ‘no pain, no gain’ brutalism of the 80s and 90s. Every studio I’ve ever worked for has preached ‘listen to your body’, and truly meant it, offering exercise modifications, props, and the invitation to come as you are, on your good days and your bad.

That was not the case at this class.

The first red flag came when we were mid-lunge. Legs trembling, I was just about to pause for a break, only to have the instructor warn down the microphone: “no one’s coming out of this. I want the whole room down in that lunge until we’re finished.”

I’m all for a little tough love, but I’m more for bodily autonomy. With no check for injuries at the start of class, and no personal interaction, they would have no clue if there were clients in the room harbouring niggles, or chronic conditions, or even just coming off night shift and needing to take it easy.

Writing it off, I came back for more the next day.

More red flags.

“No one’s stopping, we’re going right to the end”, I heard on our fifth rowing sprint. My lungs were on fire, head spinning, but I kept going.

On the third day, class finished with a two minute plank.

I can’t do a two minute plank. That’s not my self-limiting belief speaking – my deeply competitive spirit loves a challenge – but I’ve also had two babies and am dealing with some ongoing ab separation. It’s annoying, but there are plenty of ways to modify exercises. Knowing this, when I hit my plank limit (dismally early) I dropped my knees and focused on maintaining good form in my modified version.

The instructor’s voice blared out over the microphone almost instantly. “Everybody up, off your knees, come on guys, get it!”

Younger me would have done as she was told. Instead I stayed on my knees.

“Come on team, I want the whole room up on toes, 60 seconds to go, lift your knees up!”

I stayed on my knees. And despite the teeny tiny win for the people pleaser I’m trying not to be, the message was clear: I had failed.

It might not seem like a big deal, but I left the class feeling deflated. And equally, frustrated – but not at myself.

As I walked home I wondered if my ego was just bruised. Was I just having a little tantrum because I didn’t win, because I felt like my ‘fitness lover’ cap had been knocked off my head?

But as my annoyance wore off I realised that no, this wasn’t just a case of hurt feelings. If a friend or colleague told me that my best wasn’t good enough, or that I had to perform at my peak at all times, or it wasn’t worth it, I’d boot them to the toxic curb immediately.

If a boss told me that I had to nail every task I do at 100%, or it would be a write off, I’d be brushing up my resume.

But it seems that despite all our advances away from hustle culture, exercise might just be one of the last places in our lives where we still put up with this problematic ‘go hard or go home’ approach. We expect sick and compassionate leave from our workplaces. We demand reasonable accommodations for special circumstances, unique needs. But then we go to a class where the message received, loud and clear, is that one size fits all. And if it doesn’t, the problem is you.

The experience stayed with me all week, and I wondered why I couldn’t shake it. And then it hit me – I have deep cleaned my life of hustle. I work in a flexible, supportive environment, with policies that uphold work/life balance and colleagues who share my values. I am too old for toxic friendships. My Instagram feed is a curation of accounts that I find interesting, educational, or entertaining. I cleansed it of toxic positivity and ‘rise and grind’ quotes years ago. Put simply, I haven’t allowed hustle culture into my life for a long time. And seeing it there in the flesh was a shock to the system.

So as much as I enjoyed the classes, I won’t be signing up for a membership. As good as it is for my cardiovascular system, I know it’s not good for my mental health. I don’t need that voice in my head all day, telling me that harder, better, faster, stronger is the only measure of success. I don’t need to feel like a failure before 7am.

Because wellbeing isn’t just green smoothies and personal bests. It’s also self-respect, boundaries, and knowing your own limits. And being given the grace the honour them.

My limit, it turns out, is a two minute plank. No, thank you.