January is a time where many people embark on a fitness journey as part of their New Year’s resolutions. In this blog, our Trauma Ambassador Georgina reflects on her fitness journey as someone who is neurodiverse.
“It had been a quiet day — no commitments, no excuses. Just a six-minute walk down the road to the church hall in the dark. I glanced outside: no rain, not even a drizzle I could use as an excuse not to go to my fitness class.
I’ve always had a love–hate relationship with sport. Growing up, PE lessons filled me with dread. I was the last one chosen, every time — not because I didn’t try, but because coordination was never my strength. Add in autism, ADHD, and sensory processing differences (though I didn’t know that back then), and it was a recipe for frustration.
I tried everything: lacrosse, trampolining, football, tennis, netball, rounders. Every team sport ended in confusion and friction. But I did like to move. Roller-skating, cycling, swimming — the solo pursuits where no one depended on me, where I could hyperfocus or stop when it became too much.
After school, I put on weight and tried to exercise again — classes, gyms, fitness plans. I’d start with enthusiasm, but it never lasted. Group exercise was especially hard. Everyone else seemed effortlessly in sync, turning left while I froze and went right, watching myself in the mirror, clearly out of place for no obvious reason. I tried to follow the instructor, to mirror her movements, to copy the person next to me. I tried standing at the front, then the back. I tried pretending I belonged. But I didn’t. It felt just like school again.
At the gym, I’d follow the plan made for me — or try to. I’d forget routines, lose count, spend two hours cycling slowly while watching daytime TV, not understanding pacing or purpose. I didn’t know how to ask for help or even what help I needed. I just knew that I couldn’t seem to enjoy exercise the way everyone else did.
And when you already feel like a failure, it’s easy to choose the sofa over another night of standing out for all the wrong reasons. One missed class became three; one failed gym visit became months of paying for a membership I couldn’t face using.
In my 30s, I discovered running — and for the first time, something clicked. The Couch to 5K app guided me through those agonising 90-second bursts of running. I remember the first time I ran for 20 minutes — I was so proud I just kept going. For once, my brain was quiet. The rhythm, the focus, the wind on my face — I finally understood what people meant when they said running clears the mind.
During lockdown, it became my escape. I pushed further and further — sometimes a bit too literally, like the day I ran 5K to a nearby village before realising I’d have to run (or limp) the 5K back home.
But life changed again. Burnout hit. Then depression. Then a broken foot. I stopped moving altogether. I wanted to feel like myself again, to feel my body again, but I didn’t know where to start.
That’s when I found a personal trainer — just five minutes from my front door. I told her about my autism, ADHD, coordination struggles, and low confidence. My goals were simple: move more, get fitter, enjoy it. Weight loss wasn’t the aim — enjoyment was.
With her, it was different. Every session was varied and achievable. She helped me increase weights gradually, explained things clearly, and created structure that worked with my ADHD brain. She supported and challenged me in equal measure (though I still question whether she can count properly during planks).
As I gained confidence, I started attending her group classes too. My coordination hadn’t magically improved — I still went left when everyone went right — but I had changed. I started making my own adjustments: wearing headphones when the music was too loud, taking breaks to cool off, adapting moves that didn’t feel right. I stopped comparing myself to others and focused on moving my body in a way that worked for me.
For the first time, I wasn’t trying to fit in — I was making fitness fit me.
And then, last night, I went to a new class. It was set up as a circuit — ten exercises, one minute at each station. Within minutes, my chest tightened. I didn’t understand what half of the exercises were. My body wouldn’t do what I was seeing. I made it through one circuit, half of the next, and then quietly packed up and left before the tears fully fell.
There was nothing wrong with the instructor. Nothing wrong with the group. It was just too much — too many new movements, too much uncertainty, too much overwhelm.
As I walked home, a car pulled up. Someone had seen me crying and asked if I was okay.
You can imagine the laugh we all had, when I explained that “I was fine and I’d found the fitness class too hard.”
Will I go back?
Yes.
Before my diagnosis, that would’ve been the end of it — a failure, proof I didn’t belong. But now I understand what’s really going on. I understand why I struggle. And that means I can make adjustments — reasonable ones.
Next time, maybe I’ll ask for photos of each exercise instead of written instructions. Maybe I’ll pair up with someone for guidance. Maybe I’ll just do what feels right for my body that day.
Because I can cope — I just sometimes need a different way to get there.
And that’s what reasonable adjustments are all about.”
Georgina, Trauma Ambassador