He never asks about my childhood. He just hands me the weight and says, lift.
No clipboard, no copay, no “and how does that make you feel?” The bar already knows. It sits there cold and honest, waiting for me to decide if today I’m stronger than yesterday’s noise.
Some days the reps are prayers. Some days they’re just not falling apart. Either way, I walk out quieter than I came in, shoulders set, the kind of tired that feels like mercy.
He never says goodbye. Just rack it, and come back when you need him.
That’s the whole prescription.