Fitness Professionals Deal With Body Dysmorphia, Too

I became a certified barre instructor in 2021 at the age of 23. I wanted to teach because I loved the workout. I loved the feeling of pulsing to a beat, of flowing through postures with my legs shaking and sweat dripping down my back.

I also loved what the workout did for me: I lost weight. I noticed muscles that I didn’t realize I had. I saw my arms getting more toned and my waist getting smaller. I started to see my body as a collection of parts that could be changed. But I couldn’t help but compare my body to those of the people around me.

At the studio where I first taught, I was the only instructor of color. I was comparing my body to people who looked nothing like me. I was one of the curvier coaches, and I was terrified of being too big, of sticking out even more than I already did. From experience, I also knew that my margin of error was smaller than that of my peers. Clients were hesitant to take my class; if it wasn’t perfect, they wouldn’t come back. I had to be the best, and I applied that expectation to both my performance as an instructor and my body. Every time I looked in the mirror, I saw my hips and my skin. I saw what didn’t fit. I saw exaggerated versions of myself, versions that I convinced myself were real even though they didn’t match my features and my shape.

It’s not uncommon for fitness instructors to begin their careers amidst their own experiences with body dysmorphia. And while I was never formally diagnosed with body dysmorphic disorder, the fixation I had around my appearance was just one way that body dysmorphia manifested in me. Since I’ve started teaching, I’ve encountered more and more colleagues who have had similar experiences. Here, I examine why body dysmorphia is so prevalent among the fitness community, and how these pros deal with it.

Body dysmorphic disorder (BDD) is a medically diagnosed mental health condition that, per the International OCD Foundation, affects up to 10 million people in the United States alone. BDD is characterized by an intense focus on physical appearance and can manifest in symptoms like skin-picking, excessive styling or grooming, and perfectionist tendencies, according to the Mayo Clinic. The foundation also notes that almost a third of those diagnosed with BDD experience an eating disorder at some point in their lifetime.

During my training, I was knee-deep in over-exercising and under-nourishing. I was acutely aware of my stomach: how tight it was on any given day, how it hung when I walked out to a plank. I was told by my mentor at the time that my form should be aspirational, and I understood “my form” to mean “my body.” I practiced in the studio and outside of it. I got a watch to track my calories, and I’d eye the number as it ticked higher throughout the day. I ate just enough to get me through each class and started each day in front of the mirror, spine long and tummy pulled in.

Christian Nelson coaches spin and lift classes at Groundwrk, a boutique gym in Arizona that he co-owns. He’s an ACE-certified personal trainer and has been a fitness instructor since 2018. “I thought going into the industry would give me a more elevated sense of confidence around my body. And in some ways it helped, but it also made it worse,” he tells PS.

Body dysmorphia kicked in during his first training job at a bodybuilding gym. “I’m lean, and I was comparing myself to these bodybuilding trainers in the gym that I was working at,” he says. “That definitely contributed to the existing relationship I had with body dysmorphia, and not feeling like I was ever going to meet this standard or expectation.”

I became a certified barre instructor in 2021 at the age of 23. I wanted to teach because I loved the workout. I loved the feeling of pulsing to a beat, of flowing through postures with my legs shaking and sweat dripping down my back.

I also loved what the workout did for me: I lost weight. I noticed muscles that I didn’t realize I had. I saw my arms getting more toned and my waist getting smaller. I started to see my body as a collection of parts that could be changed. But I couldn’t help but compare my body to those of the people around me.

At the studio where I first taught, I was the only instructor of color. I was comparing my body to people who looked nothing like me. I was one of the curvier coaches, and I was terrified of being too big, of sticking out even more than I already did. From experience, I also knew that my margin of error was smaller than that of my peers. Clients were hesitant to take my class; if it wasn’t perfect, they wouldn’t come back. I had to be the best, and I applied that expectation to both my performance as an instructor and my body. Every time I looked in the mirror, I saw my hips and my skin. I saw what didn’t fit. I saw exaggerated versions of myself, versions that I convinced myself were real even though they didn’t match my features and my shape.

It’s not uncommon for fitness instructors to begin their careers amidst their own experiences with body dysmorphia. And while I was never formally diagnosed with body dysmorphic disorder, the fixation I had around my appearance was just one way that body dysmorphia manifested in me. Since I’ve started teaching, I’ve encountered more and more colleagues who have had similar experiences. Here, I examine why body dysmorphia is so prevalent among the fitness community, and how these pros deal with it.

Body dysmorphic disorder (BDD) is a medically diagnosed mental health condition that, per the International OCD Foundation, affects up to 10 million people in the United States alone. BDD is characterized by an intense focus on physical appearance and can manifest in symptoms like skin-picking, excessive styling or grooming, and perfectionist tendencies, according to the Mayo Clinic. The foundation also notes that almost a third of those diagnosed with BDD experience an eating disorder at some point in their lifetime.

During my training, I was knee-deep in over-exercising and under-nourishing. I was acutely aware of my stomach: how tight it was on any given day, how it hung when I walked out to a plank. I was told by my mentor at the time that my form should be aspirational, and I understood “my form” to mean “my body.” I practiced in the studio and outside of it. I got a watch to track my calories, and I’d eye the number as it ticked higher throughout the day. I ate just enough to get me through each class and started each day in front of the mirror, spine long and tummy pulled in.

Christian Nelson coaches spin and lift classes at Groundwrk, a boutique gym in Arizona that he co-owns. He’s an ACE-certified personal trainer and has been a fitness instructor since 2018. “I thought going into the industry would give me a more elevated sense of confidence around my body. And in some ways it helped, but it also made it worse,” he tells PS.

Body dysmorphia kicked in during his first training job at a bodybuilding gym. “I’m lean, and I was comparing myself to these bodybuilding trainers in the gym that I was working at,” he says. “That definitely contributed to the existing relationship I had with body dysmorphia, and not feeling like I was ever going to meet this standard or expectation.”