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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.