When the Joy Leaves the Room: Why I’m Leaving LA Fitness

After nine years as a fitness professional and six years of teaching at LA Fitness, I will teach my last classes (Body Works plus Abs and Zumba) tomorrow, May 15, 2025.

After countless playlists and sweaty smiles and moments that truly moved me, I’m stepping away. Not in bitterness, but in honesty — because the joy that once filled me when I stepped into the studio… has quietly, steadily dissipated.

(To be clear, I’m not leaving group fitness or personal training! I just will no longer be working at LA Fitness.)

This isn’t just a goodbye to a job. It’s a necessary act of alignment.

I announced my departure last week during my Zumba class. When one announces their resignation, no one is technically owed a justification. However, I understand people are used to receiving a reason why, especially after teaching as long as I have and given the relationship I have with my students. I clumsily tried to give a brief explanation last week, but now that I’ve had some more time to reflect, here are my thoughts.

The Practical Reason: I’m Tired

Let’s start with the obvious. I’m tired. My body is tired. Last year, I taught through plantar fasciitis. I currently have a toe injury that won’t heal and am dealing with a new diagnosis of subclinical hypothyroidism and anemia (on top of everything else, like polycystic ovarian syndrome, working full-time, building a consulting and wellness business as a single person — the list goes on). And teaching — especially the way I teach — takes a lot. Group fitness instructors don’t just show up and count reps. We bring the music, the joy, the transitions, the backup plans, the encouragement, the modifications, the sweat, and the spirit. Every class is a mixture of performance, pedagogy and praxis.

Lately, I haven’t had the same energy I used to. I’ve felt it, and maybe others have too.

The Feedback That Shook Me

Recently, I received feedback from my supervisor that multiple students have reported that my class “wasn’t intense enough,” and that my numbers were too low. I was told — quite literally — to “maybe talk less, even if that means people have poor form.”

Let that sink in.

Now, I take feedback seriously. I always ask myself: Is there something more I could do? Can I grow here? But in this case, I felt like I had nothing left to give. I was already giving everything. And I couldn’t help but wonder if the feedback wasn’t really about intensity — but about expectations and about bias, and anti-fat bias in particular.

I’m the only plus-size instructor on staff and one of the only Black instructors. I’ve long suspected that my body is read differently in these spaces — not as capable or commanding, but as “less.” When a thin instructor jumps around, they’re seen as high-energy. When I do the same, I’m seen as not doing enough. So I have wondered if the comments were less about intensity and more about internalized fatphobia.

Intensity is also very subjective. What is an intense class for one person is not an intense class for another person. And at a fitness centre, we don’t want all of our classes to be “intense.” We should want a great variety of intensities that meet people at a variety of fitness and interest levels. Anyone who comes to my classes also know that I always offer progressions and regressions, options and modifications. So not only was the feedback demoralizing but it was feedback that I know that I would not be able to act upon.

The Invisible Weight of Being “The Energy”

Instructors are expected to be hype machines — regardless of what they’re going through. People don’t realize how much group fitness instructors rely on the energy in the room. We feed off our participants’ energy. When there’s none, it takes a toll.

I’ve had classes where people won’t echo call-and-responses, won’t speak during body-positive affirmations — and yet I’m expected to keep the energy up. When I say “Hey,” and no one responds — it lands. When I invite affirmations and people stare blankly — it sinks. When people barely move and then tell me the class isn’t hard enough… it’s hard not to feel invisible. Discardable.

It becomes emotionally exhausting when the room feels unwilling to meet you halfway.

Yes, instructors are taught to give 110% just to get 70% back. But what happens when you give 110% and get 50% — over and over again?

It wears on you. You start to dread class. You start to feel resentful. You start to doubt the very gifts that once felt so clear.

The Deeper Truth: Misalignment

This isn’t just about one class or one comment. This is about misalignment. The kind you feel in your body before you can name it. The kind that whispers: This isn’t it anymore.

Fitness professionals are not only fitness leaders; they are often adjuncts in one’s fitness journey. We move the world. We have a skillset that puts smiles on people’s faces and gets people moving. We are the listening ear when people are rehabbing from an injury, going through a divorce or training for a marathon. In a world where the healthcare system is taxed, healthcare practitioners are burned out, there’s a long wait to see a specialist, and you can only spend 15 minutes with your doctor, fitness professionals and other allied health professionals often step into the gap. We teach people about their bodies. We help them meet their health goals. We refer them to other professionals. We help them with possible questions to ask at their next doctor visit, and we make fitness fun and enjoyable—all while remaining within our scope of practice.

Despite all that we contribute to the health and fitness of society, we are also woefully underpaid. The going rate for fitness instructors in large cities in Ontario is $30 to $50/hour (on average). While this may be above minimum wage, it doesn’t compensate for the hours—yes, hours—spent preparing for class, practising routines, creating lesson plans, and the hundreds of dollars spent in keeping certifications, licenses and, if applicable, insurance current and up-to-date. To be paid $30/hour and be asked to do more? I can’t.

At one point in my career, I used to teach 10 classes a week. Now I teach fewer, but the question remains: Does this serve me? Does it move me forward? Does it make space for the kind of work I want to do?

And lately, the answer is no.

This job doesn’t grow my brand. It doesn’t challenge me creatively. The pay barely covers my ZIN fees. And most importantly — it doesn’t feel good anymore.

This is about not staying small to make others comfortable, or tolerating low-pay, low-recognition environments just because “it’s a job.”

So What’s Next?

I’m still a teacher. I still believe in the power of joyful, body-affirming movement. But I want to teach in spaces that feel reciprocal. Where the energy isn’t just extracted — but exchanged. Where I can be soft, slow, soulful, and sweaty all at once.

I want to make room for aligned opportunities and better use of my energy.

I’ll still be offering online classes and community pop-ups rooted in Caribbean rhythms, inclusive movement, and joy without shame. I’m building something slower, deeper, and more sustainable. And if that resonates with you, I’d love to have you with me.

To every single person who has danced with me, laughed with me, or just showed up — thank you. Your presence was never taken for granted.

This isn’t the end of the music. Just a new rhythm.