Three days out of the workweek, I go to this cute little gym right down the road from me called Premier Fitness, owned and operated by one of my best friends, John Pearson—JP.
Working side by side with him is Ryan Becknell, and let me just say: these are two of the finest athletic specimens in Charleston. Two of the greatest trainers I know. And somehow, I get to hang out with them on a regular basis.
But Premier Fitness is not just a gym to me.
It’s a gem.
And I mean that literally, figuratively, spiritually—all of it.
I’m writing this on a Thursday morning, which happens to be one of the mornings I don’t go to the gym. And what am I doing?
Thinking about the gym.
That’s how much this little place means to me.
There is an energy inside those walls that I have never experienced anywhere else. It is positive. It is funny. It is honest. It is completely unpretentious. And if any negative energy even thinks about sneaking through the door, somebody says something ridiculous, somebody starts laughing, or Fiona the gym dog comes along and squashes it immediately.
Fiona is basically head of Human Resources.
The conversations that happen inside this gym are truly one of a kind. I have been saying for years that we need cameras in there because this place could absolutely be a reality show. The footage we have already lost to history is devastating.
But the thing that makes this place special isn’t really the equipment.
It isn’t the workouts.
It isn’t even the trainers, although I clearly think ours are pretty damn spectacular.
It’s the people.
When I first started going to Premier, it was just a handful of people who had followed JP from another gym. I have watched this little community grow and grow and grow. Now JP has bought land and is building another gym, which is going to be incredible.
But there will never be another this.
This little gym tucked into what basically feels like a storage facility, with air-conditioning and everything you could possibly need crammed beautifully into a small space, is a diamond in the rough.
It is our little gem.
And somewhere along the way, the people inside it became family.
I know practically everybody who walks through those doors. I’ve been going for so many years, at so many different times of day, through so many different versions of myself, that I swear I’ve probably crossed paths with nearly everyone who has ever belonged there.
And that’s where this story gets deeper for me.
Because I didn’t just work out there.
I grew up there.
That gym has seen heartbreaks. Boyfriend troubles. Good days. Bad days. Chaos. Addiction. Recovery. Turmoil. Laughter. Tears. Reinvention.
That gym saw me through some of the darkest years of my life.
I went there throughout my addiction.
I went there drunk.
And I was still met with open arms.
That is something I understand differently now that I am just shy of four years of substance-free living.
Toward the end of addiction, there aren’t a whole lot of places where you feel completely welcome exactly as you are. Alcoholics Anonymous is famous for that—you don’t have to arrive polished. You don’t have to have it together. You don’t have to prove you deserve a chair.
And somehow, I had another place like that.
I had my gym.
More specifically, I had JP.
He never turned me away.
Never.
When I think about that now, I honestly see God all over it.
Like God looked at me and said, Here. You’re going to need this one.
Here’s your earth angel.
Here’s somebody who will protect you in the gym and outside of it. Somebody who will protect your heart when he can. Somebody who will protect your mind when you’re struggling to protect it yourself. Somebody you don’t have to constantly wonder about.
Is he judging me? Is he going to leave? Am I too much? Did I screw this up?
Nope.
JP was just there.
Again.
And again.
And again.
He has ridden for me through versions of myself that I barely recognize anymore. He has taken care of me, loved me, protected me, laughed with me, trained me, watched me fall apart, and then had a front-row seat while I put myself back together.
There are people who witness your life.
And then there are people who hold a piece of it while you’re becoming.
That’s what this gym has done for me.
That’s what JP has done for me.
And that’s what this entire little community has done for one another.
Because the energy created inside that room doesn’t stay there.
Every person who walks into Premier and gets stronger, healthier, happier, more confident, more connected, or simply has a better morning because somebody made them laugh takes a little bit of that energy back out into Charleston.
That’s the ripple.
Health creates a ripple.
Kindness creates a ripple.
Laughter creates a ripple.
Acceptance creates a ripple.
And sometimes, simply refusing to turn somebody away creates a ripple that lasts for the rest of their life.
I know that because I’m living in one.
So yes, you’ll probably hear me talk about my gym a lot.
It’s a huge part of my life.
It is one of the very few places in this world where I know I can walk through the door exactly as Brooks—whatever version of Brooks happens to show up that day—and there will be a place for me.
I won’t be told to leave.
I won’t be turned away.
I’ll be welcomed.
That kind of place is rare.
So when you find one, you hold on to it.
You honor it.
You love the absolute hell out of it.
And I do.
I love my gym.
I love my gym family.
I love JP and Ryan.
I love every ridiculous conversation and every person whose energy has passed through those doors.
And, obviously, I love Fiona.
Turns out my gym really is a gem.
And I will forever be grateful that during some of the hardest years of my life, its door stayed open.
