An aggressive CLIIINNG rings past the music in my earbuds, and a shutter travels down my spine. To my left, Muscle Milk Mike has thrown an otherworldly amount of weights on the floor. It’s loud. It’s ferocious. “Welcome to day one,” says this loud noise. But all I hear is, “Welcome to hell.”

Athleticism isn’t really my thing. Getting picked second-to-last for the dodgeball team? Yes. Falling “up” the stairs? Absolutely. But pumping iron at the gym? Not so much.

That’s why this summer I followed the advice of two former first ladies, Eleanor Roosevelt, who encourages us to do the things we think we cannot do, and Michelle Obama, who stresses the importance of American youth getting in their Play 60. That’s right, I joined the gym.

The playlist I’ve prepared for today is aptly titled “Kung Fu Fighting Cats,” a lame attempt at making this gym thing seem natural to me, maybe even funny. But as I thumb through songs, I realize that not only is Simon and Garfunkel probably not hype enough for this place, but perhaps I’m not hype enough either.

Before this summer, I was what you would call—and I’m coining a new term here—a Cicada Exerciser. That is, I would come out of my place of refuge once a week, maybe twice every three weeks and work my little heart out. Running, hiking, running again, oh god running gets so boring is this over yet? And then I would go home to a luxuriously warm shower before burrowing into the dirt for 13-17 years until the next spur-of-the-moment run.

Unfortunately, there’s a downside to being a Cicada Exerciser. After freshman year my stomach acquired a noticeable fluffy quality, no doubt the direct result of one too many Velveeta Mac and Cheese cups while binge watching National Geographic specials.

I roll out a mat on the floor and try to do a push up. I grew up in a family that celebrates eating healthy and scholarship, but lifting books doesn’t exactly make muscles happen. No joke, the push up is unsuccessful. “What the heck,” I think, equal parts amused and horrified. “This is what I have to work with.”

The story almost ended there. But driving home that day, I had a realization. What if—hypothetically—I wasn’t deterred by anything? Even the fact today was a massive failure. What if there was no discussion whether or not I was heading back to the gym tomorrow because I already decided I would? What if I wasn’t afraid of failure? What if I wasn’t afraid?

So I made it happen.

This girl, grade-A champion of getting picked last in dodgeball, picked herself. I decided to be on my own team. I don’t like exercising. I was scared of those big sweaty guys and the loud, grainy music they play. I was embarrassed of running to the point of getting buttsweat. But for those last four weeks of summer, rain or shine, I didn’t miss a day. I even made friends with a couple of those muscle people. They taught me their greeting where you grunt “Hi” and half-smile like you’re in pain when really you’re feeling fine. Heck, I even became proud of my own butt sweat. Yeah, that’s right. Butts sweat and they like it.

In the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t matter if I spend my time outlifting Muscle Mike or relaxing on my couch waist-deep in Velveeta Mac & Cheese. (Yum!) But what DOES matter is that I have the ability to decide if I’m going to put in the work to achieve my zany, not-so-easy goals. Better yet, you have that ability too.

Casting away your own nay-saying and telling yourself “Let’s get it, Homeskillet!” is the first step towards reaching any goal.

And don’t worry, buttsweat is just a bonus.