She scoffs. “And lose all my productivity?” She turns the laptop toward me again and scrolls to a section labeledPrenatal Training. “Picture it—weekly updates. Safe workouts. Honest stuff about what your body is doing. Women would eat this up.”
I cringe a little at the phrasing. “I don’t love the idea of my body becoming public commentary.”
“You’re a trainer. Your body has always been part of the job.”
She’s not wrong. Still, the thought of documenting pregnancy while the entire experience already feels overwhelming makes my stomach flip a little. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that I’m growing a human being. Turning it into content feels… strange.
But she’s right about one thing. There’s a market for it. A big one.
I stare at the website again, weighing the pros and cons while my brain tries to catch up with the reality of the situation. “Okay.”
Leigh’s eyes light up instantly. “Okay?”
“Okay,” I repeat with a sigh. “But if anyone starts calling me an influencer, I’m deleting the internet.”
“You already have the certifications, the reputation, the clients,” Leigh says, tapping the screen. “All this does is expand your reach.”
I lean forward, scanning the sections she built. Online coaching. Training plans. Nutrition guidance. Video workouts. It’s organized better than half the professional sites I’ve seen.
She spins the laptop back toward herself and clicks through a few things while I sit there thinking about the weird intersection my life has apparently wandered into. Pregnant, launching a website, still training clients, still pretending my life is mostly normal.
“So here’s the other thing,” Leigh says.
I narrow my eyes. “I don’t like that tone.”
“You’re already going to the gym every day anyway.”
“That is literally my job.”
“Exactly,” she says. “Which means you can document the workouts while you’re doing them.”
I groan quietly.
“You don’t even have to do anything extra,” she continues. “Just show what you’re already doing.”
“Leigh.”
“Short videos. Safe modifications. Things that actually help people.”
I rub my face with both hands and sigh. “If this turns into some weird mommy blog situation, I’m blaming you.”
“Deal.”
The conversation shifts after that. We talk about video equipment, scheduling, and what the first training programsmight look like. It’s surprisingly normal, which almost makes the entire situation feel manageable.
The next day, the gym smells like rubber mats and disinfectant spray.
Normally that smell barely registers, but today it hits my stomach like a personal attack. I pause near the front desk and breathe slowly through my nose, waiting for the wave of nausea to settle. Throwing up in the lobby would be terrible for business.
Once my stomach stops threatening a rebellion, I head out onto the training floor. The place is already busy with early clients and the usual group of people who apparently enjoy suffering before nine in the morning. My first client waves when she spots me, and I walk over with the automatic smile I’ve perfected after years of coaching.
For the next hour, everything feels normal.
We move through her program the way we always do: squats, resistance bands, core work, and a little cardio. She complains about leg day while I correct her form and count reps. The routine is familiar enough that my brain relaxes into it, and for a little while, the rest of my life fades into the background.
Eventually, the session ends, and she heads toward the locker room while I wipe down the bench.
“Hey, Sage.”