A few weeks ago, I arrived at a spin studio I’ve been frequenting on and off for years. It’s always the same routine: I greet the receptionist, I provide my name (Weber, Lexi), she provides the bike number (always 30-something, back row, out of sight), then I take my rental shoes and make my way down the hallway.
So when the young girl behind the front desk smiled and said, “You’re on bike 16, Lexi,” I paused. Bike 16 was in the center of the front row. Did I not pay close attention when I registered for the class days before? Was there a glitch in the system? Did I need to settle some sort of karmic debt? She must have noticed the surprise on my face because she offered to look for another available bike even though the class was nearly full.
I scanned my surroundings. There was a line forming behind me. Class began in 5 minutes. There was no guarantee another bike was even open. I told her that I’d go ahead and give it a try and I regretted those words as soon as they left my mouth. It was a Thursday at 5:00 in the evening. It had been a very long day. A very long week. A very long month. I was dehydrated, sleep deprived, and self conscious of my physical ability.
As I swung my leg over the bike and clipped into the pedals, I assured myself that this would be much like all the previous classes I took in the comfort of the back row. But who am I kidding? I still care far too much about what I think other people are thinking of me to keep my self-imposed expectations that low. As soon as the lights went out, I took off like it was the Tour de France. When the instructor yelled for another turn of the resistance knob, I added generously. When the choreography called for sprints, my legs had never moved so fast in all my life.
Maybe it was the highly curated playlist blaring so loudly I couldn’t hear the usual intrusive thoughts that seep in when I try something new. Maybe it was the dim lighting that provided a sense of anonymity. But something in me shifted halfway into the 45-minute class and I no longer felt like I needed to prove my worthiness to be seated in the coveted front row. I was reminded of my own strength and I was spinning just for me.
After class ended, I caught a glimpse of myself in the large mirror that takes up one wall of the studio. A disco ball hung from the center of the ceiling, splaying dots of light across my sweat-soaked face. My damp ponytail hung over my shoulder. I was sore, depleted, and absolutely exhilarated.
It was a small, glorious win.
When I first got sober, I heard a lot about small wins in recovery circles and how much value there is in acknowledging seemingly run-of-the-mill milestones: the first paychecks we don’t spend on our addictions, the first sober job interviews, the times we tell the truth when it would be just as easy to lie, the family events we are invited to, the babies we are allowed to hold, the secrets we are trusted to keep, the 24 hours of sobriety that added up to days and weeks and months.
It was the acknowledgment of every small win that made me believe in my own strength. I hadn’t thought about that in awhile. But as I looked at my reflection, I smiled back at a version of myself who knows she is strong, resilient, capable. She just needed a reminder.
The thing they don’t tell you in early recovery is that these wins aren’t actually small. They are the momentum that keep us going, the growth that makes up our character, the moments we recall when someone asks us what we are grateful for.
Those small wins are everything.
Gorgeous ✨