I’ve been working on handstand walking for months. Practicing alone, or with just my coach, feels completely fine — I fall, I reset, nobody thinks twice about it. But the second other athletes walk into the gym, something shifts. I get nervous about falling, about looking foolish in front of people I coach, people who are supposed to be watching me for guidance, not watching me eat it on the ground.
It’s a little embarrassing every time, and honestly, I still feel that flicker of self-consciousness more often than I’d like to admit. But I do it anyway, because I’ve learned something that’s changed how I move through almost every uncomfortable moment since: almost nobody is watching as closely as we think they are.
Embarrassment is really about what we think other people think.
As humans, we want to connect and be accepted, so when something doesn’t go smoothly, our brain jumps straight to the worst-case story — everyone’s judging me, everyone saw that, everyone’s going to remember this. But that story is almost always louder in our heads than it is true in the room. Shift the question from “what will people think of me” to “how will I feel about myself if I actually try this” — and the whole thing changes. I watch that shift happen in members almost daily, and I’ve had to practice it myself more times than I can count. It doesn’t happen automatically. It’s a rep, just like anything else in the gym.
I think about a competition I did once where one of the events was swimming, so I spent the whole thing working out in a swimsuit — already a little self-conscious about that alone. Then there was a movement, the skier, where I was clearly the weakest link on my team. I kept having to step aside so stronger teammates could get more reps in. That combination — feeling exposed, and feeling like I was holding people back — is the kind of moment that sticks with you. But here’s the thing: nobody on that team remembers it the way I do. I’m the only one still carrying it.
During a hard workout, people are barely thinking about themselves, let alone you.
How many reps are left. What’s this movement even called. How much longer is this rest period. Why does my grip already hurt. There’s so much internal noise running through someone’s own head that there’s no room left over to judge the person next to them. I see it constantly with newer athletes — that hesitation before putting weight on the bar, that pause before trying a movement we just demoed for the first time. It’s written all over their body language. But if you asked the person next to them what they noticed, they’d have no idea. They were too deep in their own set to clock it. And if someone does glance your way mid-workout, it’s almost never criticism — it’s usually encouragement, or quiet respect for the fact that you’re trying something hard in front of other people at all.
Your first-class mistakes don’t matter to us — genuinely, not as a nice thing to say.
Wrong movement, lost count, needed an extra break, skipped a round, added a round — none of it registers the way you think it does. We’re glad you’re there, and that’s the whole story we remember. If something does go sideways — you need to stop, you get overwhelmed, you’re embarrassed about a rep scheme you didn’t finish — we handle it quietly, one-on-one, checking on you first and letting the rest go. Nobody’s making an announcement. Nobody’s bringing it up again. The room moves on because the room was never actually fixated on it in the first place.
The real risk isn’t looking silly — it’s not showing up at all.
Taking care of yourself doesn’t look foolish, no matter how new or unpolished you are at it. What actually costs you something is avoiding an entire class, an entire habit, an entire version of your health, because you’re worried about one uncomfortable moment that almost certainly won’t play out the way you’re imagining. I’d rather you fumble a movement in front of a room full of strangers who are rooting for you than skip the class altogether and stay stuck exactly where you are.
If the only thing holding you back from your first class is the fear of looking foolish, I want you to hear this clearly: the room is far too busy with its own workout to notice. And on the rare chance someone does notice, it’s because they’re glad you’re there — not because they’re waiting for you to slip up.