Hello Reader,

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At 60, I was still grumbling about "gym rats" and their ridiculous culture.

You know the type—all bulk and protein shakes and taking selfies between sets. Not my people.

Definitely not my scene.

I'm a soft artist type, I told myself. I do Pilates and yoga. Refined movement for refined people.

There's this local gym on our island called Black Flag. Every time I drove past their skull-and-barbell logo, I'd literally snub my nose and think, "How ridiculous. Those people are everything I'm not."

Plot twist: I've been athletic my entire life.

Track and basketball in junior high. Crew team and soccer in college. Long-distance cycling in grad school. But somehow I'd convinced myself I was delicate and gentle and definitely not the type of person who lifts heavy things.

It makes zero logical sense. But it was absolutely true in my mind.

When I turned 60, my rational brain decided I needed to start lifting weights for bone density and muscle mass. My identity brain was having none of it.

I found a personal trainer who was exactly what I hated about gym culture—arrogant, bulked up, all about intimidating his clients. After one meeting, I knew there was no way I was working with someone like that.

That frustration forced me to reconsider my position on Black Flag.

So I walked into the place I'd been judging for years, expecting to confirm all my biases.

Here's what shattered every assumption I had:

The owner was the nicest guy ever—lean but obviously strong, completely accepting of my goals, made me feel welcome immediately.

Black Flag's primary demographic? Women over 50. Many my age or older.

Zero Ken dolls grunting at their reflections or Barbie wannabes taking gym selfies. Just normal humans with laugh lines and gray roots, quietly getting stronger while the rest of the world assumes we're home knitting.

The cherry on top: it's basically a garage with the door rolled up to the marsh breeze. And there were dogs—three of them just casually hanging out like this was the most normal thing in the world.

Any place where dogs feel that comfortable is my kind of place.

I started training three times a week.

Surprise! I LOVED it.

I loved seeing what my 60-year-old body could do. I loved getting stronger and more mobile instead of accepting "feeble and weak" as inevitable aging. I loved it so much I bumped up to five days a week.

Now I'm actually proud when I walk in there. All of us "old folks" busting it out, being stronger than many people decades younger.

The soft artist type who judged gym culture now works out five days a week and convinced her husband to join her.

Same person. Same values. Just a completely different story about what was possible for someone "like me."

But here's what really hit me: this wasn't the first time I'd put myself in an artificial box that had nothing to do with who I actually am.
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​Turns out I've been doing this my whole life—in college, in business, everywhere. I dove into the whole pattern on my blog this week, including the questions that help you spot where you might be doing it too.

​Read the full story here​

Standing in that gym, surrounded by badass women my age redefining what "over 50" looks like, I finally saw the pattern I've been living my whole life:

I keep putting myself in artificial boxes that have nothing to do with who I actually am.

In college, I tortured myself trying to choose between math and art. In business, I exhausted myself code-switching between "creative Pamela" and "analytical Pamela." At 60, I was still limiting myself based on stories about what "people like me" do.

Soft OR strong. Refined OR hardcore. Young person's activity OR age-appropriate behavior.

Every single identity box I'd accepted was complete fiction.

Here's what I wish someone had told me at 18: You're not a noun. You're a verb.

You're not a fixed identity that has to stay consistent with past versions of yourself. You're an evolving, constantly surprising human being who gets to keep becoming.

You can be logical AND intuitive. Soft AND strong. Refined AND hardcore.

You can change your mind about who you are without apologizing to anyone—including the voice in your head that insists you have to "pick a lane."

Your contradictions aren't weaknesses. They're your superpower.

Wake-Up Question: What identity box are you ready to outgrow? What assumption are you making about people "like you" that might be complete fiction?

Hit reply and tell me. I'd love to hear about your own beautiful contradictions.

Much love,
Pamela