Last week, we woke up to water seeping through our floors from a burst pipe. For days, it kept leaking, warping the wood and spreading damage, leading the contractors to call it a “forced remodel.”
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In 2022, I went through my own “forced remodel.” When my back gave out and I couldn’t walk, my body forced me to tear down the life I had and rebuild from the ground up. I never would have guessed that something as simple as a cycle class would become the foundation of that remodel, giving me the consistency, community, and accountability I didn’t even realize I was missing.
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For years, the only thing I was consistent about was inconsistency. My diet, my career, my friendships, my fitness—everything looked like half-finished projects, abandoned before they had time to take root. I told myself it was because of my undiagnosed ADHD, but really, it was easier to walk away than to face what it meant to stay. My life looked like a house with peeling paint and cracked floors—always patching, never rebuilding.
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The day I finally pushed myself through the doors of CHVRCH, I felt like an intruder walking into a home that wasn’t mine. The unfamiliarity was terrifying and my instinct was to get through one class and bolt. But Natasha’s sincere smile disarmed me, and Naomi’s warm presence & patience as she clipped me in made me feel like maybe I could belong. I struggled through that first class, barely keeping up, but something inside me sparked. For the first time in a long time, I wanted to come back.
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A few months later, when I saw an Instagram post about a front desk position, I must have rewritten my message twenty times before hitting send. I told myself it was just about free rides, but in hindsight, I realize I was looking for more than that. I was looking for a place where I could lay down roots, where I could finally start rebuilding something to last.
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And then, just when I thought I was making progress, the floor gave out again. A severe back injury stopped me in my tracks. The pain was brutal, but the depression that followed was worse. I felt gutted—stripped bare, like everything I’d worked for had been torn down. I was convinced this would be another half-finished attempt, another collapsed structure in the story of my inconsistency.
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But CHVRCH surprised me. Instead of shutting me out, they gave me space and support. They told me my spot would still be there when I was ready. So I kept showing up—not to ride, but to work front desk. At first, it felt a little pointless to show up to the studio and not be able to ride. But over time, those little interactions—people checking in on me, asking how I was, reminding me they cared—became the scaffolding that kept me standing, while I couldn’t stand on my own.
Eight months and one surgery later, I finally clipped back in. I had a pile of unused classes waiting for me and I burned through them in six weeks. But it wasn’t about catching up—it was about reclaiming my foundation.
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Somewhere along the way, something shifted. CHVRCH became more than a workout. It became the blueprint for how to rebuild myself. Each time Ana would say “I won’t tell you to smile but I’ll remind you to loosen your jaw,” I realized how much tension I carried into every corner of my life. When Alyx would say, “You’ve proven over and over you can do hard things,” I started repeating it in the hardest moments, both on and off the bike. And each time Naomi said , “You’re a bad bitch—so act like it,” I believed her before I believed myself. Each word became like a nail, a beam, a brick—piece by piece, putting me back together.
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After eight months of feeling like the weakest version of myself, I started to see my strength again. And now, after three years, I’m truly beginning to reap the benefits of what CHVRCH has done for my psyche, both mental & physical. Three years of showing up—even when it wasn’t easy or fun—I’ve gained more than I ever imagined: resilience, confidence, discipline, and a community that feels like home.
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This wasn’t the remodel I asked for, but just like the burst pipe in my house, it stripped everything down to the studs. At first, all I could see was the damage—the wreckage of my plans, the mess of my body, the weight of starting over. But underneath, there was a foundation waiting to be rebuilt. CHVRCH became the framing, the beams, the walls that held me up when I couldn’t hold myself. And ride by ride, word by word, moment by moment, I rebuilt—not into who I was before, but into someone stronger, steadier, and more at home in my own skin. Looking back, that “forced remodel” saved me- and this version of me is built to last.