Paul’s Story of Injury and Re-Invention

Paul Ostazeski, the day after Achilles surgery

"What are you doing at the gym the day after Achilles tendon surgery?" is the question that everyone has asked me this week. I wish I had a cooler answer, but the honest one is I NEED to be here. The gym has become an integral part of my life, and even surgery couldn't keep me away. The truth is, the gym is more than just a place to work out; it's a sanctuary. The camaraderie, the shared struggles, and the collective triumphs make it a place I can't stay away from.

Nine months ago, I was in probably the worst shape of my life. I hadn't exercised regularly for as long as I could remember. I would get winded climbing a flight of stairs. I sweated when I ate. And I hated the body I saw in the mirror. My self-esteem was at an all-time low, and I knew I needed to make a change. I felt trapped in a cycle of self-loathing and unhealthy habits, and it seemed like there was no way out.

The biggest obstacle for me was walking in the door that first day. The fear and intimidation I felt were overwhelming. I was terrified of being judged, of not being able to keep up, of failing yet again. The thought of stepping into a gym, surrounded by fit and confident people, was paralyzing. I had built up this image in my mind of a place where I would be out of place, where my inadequacies would be on full display.

In March, I came to one of the visitors' week kettlebell classes. I had tried various DIY workouts, and rarely made it past a week before giving up again. I assumed that I would fail here too, and I could go back to my self-pity about what a lazy blob I was. But something inside me pushed me to give it a try, to take that first step, even if it was just to prove myself right.

That first class, I made sure to take the spot closest to the door, keeping the option open to bail out (vomit) and never come back. The first month I stayed in the back row as much as possible, trying to remain invisible. My inner monologue was all about how much I didn't belong at a gym. I felt like an imposter, surrounded by people who seemed to know exactly what they were doing. Every time I looked around, I saw people lifting heavier weights, moving with more confidence, and I felt like I was miles behind. But it didn't matter…

There's no comparison to the person next to you, only to what you yourself can do.

I hadn't anticipated just how supportive everyone is to one another. It didn't matter that one person was swinging 12kg kettlebells and someone else was swinging 36s: completing a set was completing a set. Was that more than you managed last time? Hell yeah, good job. Was it not? Put that one behind you, try again.

The little things added up quickly. Dan (and Chris and Katie) offered small corrections to form and technique every class. I was greeted by name every time I walked in (so much for staying invisible). There was no judgement when I couldn't complete a set, only encouragement to try again.

And when someone set a personal record, the whole class would cheer. Nothing felt forced or artificial, everyone's enthusiasm for one another was so genuine.

Early on, my goal was to change my mindset and shut down that inner naysayer. I had to think of myself as somebody who goes to the gym before I had any hope of finding success at the gym. The temptation to skip a class was always there: but I also knew that if I skipped one then I'd skip two, then two would become three, and if I skipped three then I'd probably never come back. So I came to as many kettlebell sessions as I could. I put the classes on my calendar so I would have to treat them like any other appointment.

One of the most significant moments for me was the first time I completed a full punch the clock workout without having to skip reps or stop early. It was a small victory, but it felt monumental. It was a turning point, a moment when I realized that I was capable of more than I had expected. I didn't realize it at the time, but that was the moment that I stopped thinking of BKC as a foreign place where I was temporarily forcing myself to be and started thinking of it as another home.

Just like any home, the thing that really makes it is the people there. The community at BKC welcomed me with open arms, and their support has been unwavering. From the friendly greetings to the genuine encouragement, every interaction has reinforced my sense of belonging. Now, nine months later, I am in better shape, but it isn't enough: I want more. I am stronger, fitter, and happier. I'm using different holes on my belt. I don't loathe my reflection. My inner monologue has become more forgiving. I am happier all the time. I BOUND out of bed to get to morning class, and I come home SINGING.

When I snapped my Achilles, I knew right away what had happened. I was jumping around on an agility ladder with my daughter (or, if my doctor asks, "playing hopscotch ... with enthusiasm"). I heard the POP, I felt like someone had kicked me in the ankle, and I could not push off of my toes. It took a minute to work out how to stand. When you see it in pro sports, it's a season-ending injury. I felt sorry for myself for a couple of days, but that quickly started to feel like giving up, and I've gained too much to give up now. My goals haven't changed: the road to those goals just got very foggy. But at BKC I've found a map, and I've met fellow travelers on that same road.

The day after surgery, I couldn't stay away. The thought of missing out on my workouts, on the progress I had made, and on the support of my gym family was unbearable. I've gained too much to let it slip away. So, I made the decision to come back the next morning, to continue my journey and to keep pushing myself. After all, I've still got three working limbs.

Swings are off-limits for a while. But push-ups are possible. Deadlifts are out of the question for months. But curls can be done seated. Turkish get-ups are on pause. But bench press can be done without any leg drive. Snatching is inadvisable. But the pull-up bar isn't going anywhere. So I'll still be here, clunking around on my hands-free crutch or a walking boot or whatever else comes next until my leg is back to full strength. I'll be lifting or swinging something with whatever limb I can, because my "full strength" today is so much more than it was a year ago, and I want it to be even more next year.