Last Day
I had variations of the same dream, over and over again, after I was fired. I found myself back at the gym, in an official capacity—not my old role as a strength coach, but I’d been re-hired to do something.
In the dream, chagrined and embarrassed, I thought How did I end up back here? Why am I doing this? And all my co-workers were there too, young men in the far shadowy reaches of the room, but no one spoke, or even came near me.
The gym layout differed from reality; there was an oval ground floor, with offices on a second floor gallery up high. From the first floor, I would look up and see my boss, Steve, turn out of his office and down the gallery walkway.
I wanted him to see me, to acknowledge me. I stood there resolutely, willing him to do this. No matter how the dream varied, I always watched the back of my former boss and former coach as he walked away, and my feelings in it stayed the same: bewilderment, sadness, shame.
Oddly, the night before my real-life last shift at the gym, I slept deeply and blankly for hours, without dreaming, despite dreading the coming day.
My last day was a Monday, my first day back after two weeks of vacation. There’d been some friction between Steve and me before I left; it was nothing new. Every year, during my review, he’d ask for feedback for himself and the business.
And for four years in a row, I said the same thing: a little communication goes a long way, a little better communication from you would help me and the business. He’d agree: yeah, I should do that, and things would be better. Despite asking for feedback, and accepting its validity, he didn’t seem to learn, or change.
He continued to disappear each day without explanation, and sometimes he’d log into the scheduling software over the weekend or late at night and rearrange my schedule, leaving this for me to discover, and forcing me to scramble to prepare for classes and sessions.
During the week before my vacation, when I asked him again to give me a head’s up (via text message) about scheduling changes, he instantly became furious, and spat out “You need to be prepared to work every hour of your shift.”
What does that even mean? went through my head, along with How dare you say that to me. The week before, in staff meeting, he’d told the guys it was okay to play the H.O.R.S.E. basketball game during work, as long as they kept it to a half hour or less.
I juggled writing programming, promoting the gym on social media, cleaning, answering the phone, and helping clients with their accounts, in addition to coaching classes, one-on-one sessions, and semi-private groups, often by myself. For a time we even had a cryotherapy machine at the gym, and I had to run people through that while simultaneously teaching group classes.
“I work hard,” I replied. “Everyone works hard,” he snapped in return. I felt ambushed; his anger and dismissiveness surprised and stung me. “I put a lot of effort into what I do,” I responded quietly, “and you don’t seem to notice.”
He’d been at a bachelor party over the weekend, along with two employees from the gym, including the groom, who (upon returning to work) put up pictures of Steve and the other coach passed out in their underwear. When I found some of these images at the front desk (where clients could potentially see them), I immediately threw them away.
This type of mockery was fun for the men, or was supposed to be. It made me feel uncomfortable, as if I was working in a frat house, where I didn’t belong. But I didn’t know how to articulate what was wrong, so I kept my mouth shut.
It was all confusing, and after Covid—after not having autonomy and control over so much of my life due to the pandemic—I was tired of being a good sport.
On my final morning, I started at 6:30 am and had a mystery meeting on my schedule at 12 pm, placed there by Steve with no communication. He’d also taken away my two group classes, placing one on his own schedule, which was strange.
When I came in through the back door, I almost bumped into him. He stiffly muttered “Good morning, Maura,” turned on his heel, and walked away. He didn’t say another word to me before he left and returned, late, at 12:15.
During my shift, I kept going into the bathroom, to splash a little water on my face, and hide from people who were on the gym floor. The women’s room had a fan that was a little loud, and I’d stand there for a moment listening to it drone on, looking at myself in the mirror in my polyester Olympia Fitness & Performance staff shirt. For some reason I picked the royal blue shirt that day, instead of my favorite black one.
I needed frequent breaks from fake-smiling and pretending everything was fine, just fine. Hi, how are you? Good! Vacation was good, thanks. Yep, two weeks, but now I’m back, I promise. Take care. Have a good workout. See you tomorrow! ‘Bye.
The wait was excruciating, and deeply lonely.
In my gut, I knew I wouldn’t be at the gym “tomorrow,” but I kept my professional face on, even when Steve’s wife greeted the client I was working with and then walked right on by without saying a word to or even looking at me.
We’d worked closely together, helping people, she as a physical therapist, and me, a strength coach taking her clients to the next level. I wanted to stop her and say—This is it, right? Today’s the day?
I wanted to yell, to grab someone by the arm and shake them, awaken them.
Why won’t you look at me? Why don’t you SEE me?
But instead my day and career at Olympia would end with me sitting across from Steve in his windowless, sour-smelling office, and some HR consultant on the phone, listening in, as an invisible witness.
This is Chapter 3 from a longer piece about my experience working in the strength & conditioning world as a post-menopausal woman. It’s also about working through the shame and pain of being fired from I job I cared deeply about.
Click here to read more:
Chapter 4: The Conversation