Unpopular opinion: modern humans invented gyms because we removed real physical work from our lives and felt vaguely guilty about it.
So we built rooms where nothing gets built.
We lift iron to put it back down. We run on belts that politely refuse to move us forward. We burn calories to… replenish them later. The body screams work accomplished, while the world quietly asks, what exactly happened?
Earlier cultures didn’t need motivation quotes on walls. Their workouts were called life. Farming, building, hauling, repairing—physical effort that ended with food on the table, shelter overhead, or tools sharper than before. You slept well because the day earned it. Fatigue had dignity.
Today, we outsource usefulness and re-import exhaustion as a hobby.
The gym is a fascinating placebo: sweat without consequence, strain without output, soreness without story. It convinces the nervous system that something meaningful occurred. The body buys it. The soul… less so.
Sports, though—that’s different. Sports are play with purpose. There’s skill, timing, failure, recovery. You read others. You improvise. You lose. You learn. You win, occasionally. You coordinate bodies and minds. Leadership emerges. Decisions matter. Effort has context.
But mindless repetition? That’s not movement; it’s simulated labor.
This isn’t an argument against strength or health. It’s an argument against confusing motion with meaning. Against replacing craftsmanship with counters, effort with metrics, usefulness with aesthetics.
Maybe the problem isn’t that we don’t move enough. Maybe it’s that we no longer make enough.
Give me tired hands that fixed something. Muscles that moved the world, even a little. A body ready for rest because the day demanded it—not because a machine beeped politely to say, workout complete.
