Because My Thoughts Deserves the Stage:
- rosetta864
- Jan 27
- 6 min read
Updated: Feb 1
The Treadmill Roast: Because My Thoughts Deserves the Stage
So there I was, striding confidently into my third fitness gym this year like a warrior ready for battle. Yoga? Check. Pilates? Done that. I’d tried the whole "mind-body connection" thing, but let’s be real—this aging pre-menopause body was craving more, so I followed the call…
Enter: OrangeTheory. This is the gym that looks like it’s built for people who actually sweat with a purpose, pushing their limits like it's their second job. I thought I was ready. I signed up, walked into my first class, and immediately felt like I had stepped into a neon acid trip. I stepped onto the treadmill, more like a senior citizen eyeing a cracker sidewalk, trying not to faceplant because the lighting was so intense. I could’ve sworn I was already tripping, struggling to find my footing while dodging what felt like beams from an alien spacecraft.
The instructor plugged in their playlist and went into auto-pilot mode, attempting to vibe with the blaring music. For a second, I felt like a hero in my own workout montage. Yes, this is it. This is my moment.
And then—bam—the mirror. That damn mirror.
You know the moment I’m talking about. You’re just minding your business, walking (or, let’s be honest, limping and cursing ) on the treadmill when you catch a glimpse of yourself. And in that split second, everything goes sideways. You go from being in the zone to suddenly disassociating like your brain just decided to take a detour. In that moment, your thoughts grab the mic and let you have it—live on stage.
The mirror is the worst kind of audience. The kind that doesn’t clap or cheer. It just stares back, silently judging. And it knows everything. It’s like it’s reading your soul, showing you exactly how far you've come and how much further you’ve still got to go.
Thoughts (aka the Roastmaster): Look at you. Again. Are we really doing this? Sagging in all the wrong places, bitch. What part of pause in premenopausal don’t you understand? Slow your game down, like Pilates wasn’t enough. Nope, now you need more. More cardio. More intensity. More everything. But do we really need more? You know what we need? A good book. A blanket. A nap. An Ashwagandha. And certainly not this hardcore shit.”
Deep Inner Me: …Nope, we’re doing this. We signed up. We’re committed.
Thoughts (coming in hot): Thoughts (coming in hot): Oh, I’ll remind you that yoga is great for our age, but, of course, that’s not enough for you, is it? No, you need to push harder. You need more. Because, deep down, you think this is going to magically fix everything. But here we are, trudging along like a hamster on a wheel, hoping for some fitness miracle.
Meanwhile, my body is just... there. Moving. Doing its thing while my brain takes a detour straight into self-roast mode.
I’m on the treadmill, walking (or maybe running, depending on how optimistic I’m feeling), but mentally? I’m checked out. My body’s still going, but I’m 100% not in the game. Instead, my thoughts are busy offering a full-on commentary about everything that’s wrong with my body, the gym, and—why not?—life in general.
Thoughts: And don’t even get me started on these neon lights. Who thought this was a good idea? It’s like they’re trying to burn us alive with these over-the-top, orange lights. This isn’t a workout; this is a visual assault. I can’t even breathe properly and the lights are just blinding. It’s too much. Let's rap this shit show up, and go home.
But here’s the kicker—despite the mental meltdown, despite my brain roasting me alive, I kept moving. I could’ve stopped. I could’ve walked off that treadmill, called it a day, and let my thoughts win. But I didn’t.
I’m not saying it was fun, but guess what? I showed up—and that’s a win in itself. Honestly, I wasn’t just looking for a workout; I needed that ass-kicking to shake off the tension building in my mind—and, let’s be real, my gut too. My thoughts like to run the show, critiquing me from the inside out, but the only way to break free is to move, push, and take action. Whether it’s through sweat, a good laugh, a full-on self-roast session, or just screaming out the word “FUCK!” like your life depends on it. And yeah, screaming it out like that can feel like a mini exorcism—sometimes, it’s the quickest way to clear the mental fog.
So, I keep moving. Because it’s not just the sweat that works—it’s the release. The tension breaks, the thoughts settle, and yeah, that “FUCK!”—yelling it out to release all that built-up pressure? Totally helps too.
Here’s a fun, real way to shift from “I can’t” to “I fucking will” :
Recognize the Inner Doubt: When your thoughts go negative, like, "Look at me, I’m sagging and slow," stop right there. Acknowledge the doubt, but don’t let it own you.
Laugh at the Chaos: Pre-menopause, menopause, Pilates, yoga, and a trip to OrangeTheory that feels like an acid trip with neon lights blasting in your face—yeah, it’s a lot. But instead of losing it in the mental mindfuck of menopause madness, dig deep for that inner badass. She’s there. And trust me, she’ll get you through it.
Embrace the Pause: The word “pause” in pre/menopausal is your reminder to slow down—not everything needs to be an intense hustle. Take a step back, breathe, and then move forward at your own pace.
Focus on What You Need, Not What You Should Do: Sure, more cardio sounds like the right move, but it’s the simple things that make a difference—A book, a blanket, a nap, an Ashwagandha. You decide what fills your cup.
Commitment is the Key: When the “slow crawl” feels real, remind yourself: this is what you signed up for. There’s no backing out. You’ve made a promise to yourself, and it's time to follow through.
Mind Over Matter: Take a deep breath and flip the script from “I can’t do this” to “I fucking will.” It’s all about your mindset—you're stronger than you think.
Embrace the Journey: You’re on a path of progress, not perfection. It’s not about hardcore everything—it’s about the steady grind. You’ve got this.
P.S. Have you ever had one of those moments where your thoughts just take over and roast you alive? I know I’m not the only one! Drop a comment and tell me about your own battle with self-doubt, gym struggles, or moments when your inner critic had too much to say. Let’s laugh, vent, and cheer each other on. We’re in this together—sweat, self-roasts, and all.
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I have listed four brands of Ashwagandha; please choose the one that best suits your needs. Side note: I use Pure 500 mg. Please refer to my article " Ah, The Shituations with IBS- for details on Ashwagandha as must read :
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Just so you know, the links included are my affiliate links—they help support this blog (and, let’s be real, my mental state as I keep writing).
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