Jed Wolf

My gym has become unrecognizable lately, transformed by an influx of members from across the globe. Where I once knew everyone in the locker room—their politics, their prejudices, their daily routines—now I find myself swimming in unfamiliar waters. The change has made my workouts more thought-provoking than any amount of weight training ever could.

The silence is what strikes me first. Gone are the political debates and casual conversations that once echoed off the tiles. In their place: the soft drip of sweat and the muted sounds of people trying not to notice each other. A man who I assume is Pakistani wades in the pool daily, never speaking, never nodding hello. His grunts of exertion in the sauna seem to express a universal discomfort that transcends language. I catch myself wondering about his story, what experiences have shaped his apparent indifference to those around him.

The sauna itself has become a study in cultural collision. Where once I saw only glinting watches and wedding rings, now I notice prayer beads, cultural tattoos, and diverse religious symbols. A young Asian man with an intricate forearm design bobs his head to music only he can hear, while two men across from him murmur in a language I don’t recognize. Above us, closed-captioned TVs flash silent news headlines that no one acknowledges. We’ve mastered the art of looking without seeing, of sharing space without connection.

Sometimes I try to bridge the gap. I’ll comment on a news headline or ask about someone’s workout routine, only to receive the now-familiar “I try not to pay attention” or “I no speak.” Once, I asked a young man about the green liquid in his water bottle and was met with such pointed silence that I had to remind myself age discrimination cuts both ways.

But rather than retreating into resentment, I’ve found these challenges pushing me toward growth. The gym’s evolving demographics have become an unexpected training ground for empathy. The old guard—the bigots who used to dominate locker room conversation with their thinly veiled hatred—have largely disappeared, their First Amendment vitriol rendered impotent by the steady drumbeat of national tragedies and this wave of global migration.

I’ve adopted a new workout mantra: “Be nice first.” It’s not always easy. When someone lets a door slam in my face or refuses to acknowledge a greeting, my initial reaction is still frustration. But I’m learning that kindness isn’t about reciprocation—it’s about choice. These newcomers likely carry their own heavy weights of discrimination and displacement. Their aloofness might be armor, built from years of being treated as outsiders.

Unlike team sports or politics, the gym offers no opposing side to defeat, no ideology to defend. We either learn to share equipment and space peacefully, or we poison our own workout environment with tension. Each day presents small opportunities for connection: a nod, a held door, a shared smile of exhaustion after a tough set. When I fail to take these opportunities, the weight of missed connection sits heavier than any barbell.

Some might say this is naive, that larger societal problems can’t be solved by simple gym etiquette. But I’ve watched how shared sweat and struggle can erode barriers of language and culture. In towns across America, fitness centers have become accidental laboratories for tolerance. Unlike our workplaces, churches, or political gatherings, gyms force us to face our prejudices while working toward personal improvement.

This isn’t just about feeling good or being politically correct. It’s about survival in an increasingly connected world. Every rep of understanding, every set of patience, strengthens what might be our most vital muscles: empathy and acceptance. Like any exercise, it gets easier with practice. The burn of initial discomfort gives way to the satisfaction of growth.

So I keep nodding hello. I keep holding doors. I keep believing that small acts of acknowledgment matter. Because in the end, we’re all here for the same reason: to become stronger versions of ourselves. And sometimes, that strength has nothing to do with how much we can lift.