Hey friend,
Can I ask you something? Have you ever felt like you’re on a Peloton bike? Not the glossy, commercial kind with perfect lighting and abs for days—but the kind where you’re pedaling your guts out in real life. The kind where the screen shows a mountain trail or beach road, but in reality, you’re staring at the same four walls. Same carpet. Same breathless frustration.
Photo by Trust “Tru” Katsande on Unsplash
You’re doing the work. Legs burning. Heart pounding. Sweat dripping into your eyes. You’ve turned up the resistance like the instructor said. You’ve followed the prompts. And still—you haven’t moved. Not one inch.
The instructor yells, “Push through! You’re stronger than you think!” while Eye of the Tiger blares, and yeah, maybe part of you believes it. But another part? Thinks you’re just building calluses for no reason. You’re tired. And honestly? You don’t even know what you’re training for anymore.
That’s what these seasons feel like—the stationary ones. The ones where you’re not coasting or quitting or hiding. You’re actively showing up. Trying. Hoping.
And… nothing.
No breakthrough. No gold star. No visible progress.
Just you. Pedaling. Again.
You go to the job that no longer lights you up.
You parent kids who roll their eyes so hard you feel it in your soul.
You stay in a marriage that’s not broken—but it’s not breezy either. It’s work.
You journal. You walk. You read. You pray. You show up. You try.
And still, there’s this undercurrent: I should feel better by now.
Then comes the guilt. Because you know you’re lucky. You know you have things other people would give anything for. So you push the frustration down. Smile. Say you’re grateful. Get back on the bike.
But deep down?
You know you’re stuck.
Let me say this clearly:
You are not alone.
And more importantly—you are not failing.
This kind of season doesn’t show up on Instagram. It doesn’t fit into an inspirational quote or a glossy planner. It’s quiet. It’s repetitive. It’s sweaty, emotional work behind the scenes.
And it’s where real growth happens—even if no one claps for it.
There’s a weird trick our brains play during stuck seasons: we think we must be doing something wrong because it’s not working. But sometimes? It is working and you just can’t see it yet. You’re building stamina. Endurance. Clarity. Strength. Things that don’t show up right away.
Still, maybe it’s time to ask the question that changed everything for me:
Is it time to get off the bike?
And before your inner perfectionist panics—no, I don’t mean give up. I don’t mean walk away from your marriage or quit your job with no plan.
I mean: is it time to stop confusing effort with movement?
You’ve already proven you can endure. You’ve got the emotional leg muscles to prove it. You’ve survived the resistance. You’ve pedaled hard through seasons that felt impossible.
But maybe now? It’s time to use that strength differently.
Getting off the bike doesn’t mean abandoning your life.
It means reevaluating your rhythm.
It means asking: “Is the way I’ve been doing this still serving who I’m becoming?”
Because let’s be real—you’ve changed. And maybe your pace, your goals, or even your identity haven’t caught up yet.
So start with the first step: telling the truth.
The truth about what you want.
What you’re tired of.
What you’re craving.
What isn’t working—even if it “should be.”
My version of that truth?
“I don’t hate my life… but I’ve outgrown parts of it.”
“I want more creativity, more joy, more realness.”
“I want to stop surviving and start choosing again.”
It wasn’t a glamorous moment. I wasn’t meditating or sipping tea in a cozy chair. I was in my car, sweating through my T-shirt, trying not to cry at a red light. But the second I said it out loud, I felt it—space.
And from there? I could take one small step.
Not a leap. Not a career change. Not a plot twist. Just a shift.
You don’t have to blow up your life.
You don’t have to walk away from everything.
You just have to be honest enough to say, “This rhythm isn’t working anymore.”
And brave enough to explore a new one.
That’s not quitting.
That’s evolving.
So take the next brave step:
Write the thing.
Apply for the job.
Speak the words.
Set the boundary.
Change the schedule.
Ask for support.
Take the walk.
Turn the page.
You don’t need a full plan. You just need momentum.
Because here’s the beautiful truth:
The resistance wasn’t punishment. It was preparation.
You’re stronger now than you were.
Strong enough to move.
Strong enough to choose.
Strong enough to go after the thing you were made for—even if your voice shakes.
And if you fall on the way? So what. You’ve got the muscle memory to get back up.
Because you’ve already done the hardest part: you kept showing up even when it didn’t feel like it was working.
That kind of faithfulness matters more than you know.
Let this be the season where you stop spinning in place.
Let this be the season where you start moving forward—even if it’s slow, awkward, or doesn’t come with a Pinterest quote.
And hey—if you need a soundtrack? Throw on Eye of the Tiger.
But this time?
Walk forward.
Not out of everything.
Not away from your life.
But into something more aligned. Something more honest. Something that fits who you’re becoming.
Because you’re not just pedaling anymore.
You’re actually going somewhere.
And maybe being stuck wasn’t failure after all.
Maybe it was just the warm-up.
Rachel L. Richard is a small-town farm girl turned suburbanite, a delightfully irreverent optimist, Mrs & Mama, floppy dog ear scratcher, lifelong learner, channel surfer, wanderer, believer, occasional creative, out-of-practice musician, cupcake addict, book devourer, and lover of all people.
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