03/04/2026
Ok, the Gym…relationship status: It’s Complicated. At various stages in my life, the gym has been a place I could go to be utterly anonymous or very visible. As a young dancer, it carried a whiff of defiance as I lifted weights that could make me look less than light and wafty (not desirable). As a marathon runner, I mashed out miles on the treadmill and got lost in my headphones. I once met someone I loved in a gym. As a personal trainer, it was my office and yet I always felt a fraud on the gym floor, surrounded by brawny, often steroid-riddled men spitting out Latin names and figures with supreme confidence while passing not-so-silent jugement on women’s bodies or training form. But since discovering Pilates, the gym is none of that anymore; it is no longer a familiar space. I can no longer disappear into myself there as I could before: only a reformer studio does that for me now. The machines feel archaic and restrictive; they don’t flow with me. I count down the seconds until I feel I’ve spent a respectable enough amount of time and can leave. But I know my body needs to build muscle and gain strength at this stage of life, and so if I have to be in a gym, then it better be this one: the Vineyard hotel’s gym, which throws its doors open onto the slopes of Table Mountain and the well-loved gardens and permits you be to admire a jackal buzzard from the Stairmaster. I spent a happy hour there, doing weight stuff with a mandatory side serving of core stabilisation and didn’t count every single second. And the biggest win is realising that now I only care about two people’s opinions of my body: my own, and my doctor’s. And that freedom tastes good.