I’ve always worked. I had part-time jobs while still in high school. When I wasn’t studying or socializing while in University, I was working. One of my more entertaining experiences took place when I was 19. I worked as a counter girl in a well known donut restaurant. I lasted three weeks, gained eight pounds and promptly quit. So much for my brief stint in the fast food industry!

After completing my university degree and post graduate training to become a dietitian, I was employed full time for the next 18 years, until Lauren was five-years-old. After that I took on contract work two or three days per week. When Lauren died in 1999, I stepped out of the work-a-day world for five years in order to process my grief.

As the season of re-entry dawned, I gave some thought to returning to nutritional practice. Having logged many years working one on one with clients it would have been a familiar path. I liked the notion of working directly with people again so I put my name out there and received a few client calls. But it didn’t feel right. Grief had altered me in a fundamental manner. There was no going back. I needed something new, more personal: hands on. I wanted to reach others on a more intimate level than talking to others about their food choices. When I was a diet counsellor, I was in the role of asking people to make changes in their lives not because they wanted to but because they “had to” – usually with their doctor’s prescription. I found that to be a separating role that did nothing to enhance relationship. After loss, I wanted to connect.

I cast about for employment options thinking about senior care, dog therapy and child care. I gave serious consideration to full-time bereavement work. I even enrolled in a ten course University certificate program offered by King’s College at The University of Western Ontario. That course work added an academic understanding of grief and bereavement to my information base, for which I was grateful. Yet, in my heart of hearts, I knew I was not emotionally equipped to become a bereavement counsellor. After two years of part-time study, I chose not to complete the degree.

Nothing fit. Interestingly, a couple of times when I tried to get started, things just didn’t work out. For one reason or another, I’d hit a series of roadblocks, sputter and stall along the way in whatever I tried to engage. I interpreted the stumbling blocks as a sign that I had not yet determined a meant-to-be career choice.

At that same time, as an outlet for grief and to create both physical and mental empowerment, I started working out. I joined a ladies-only gym and unsuspectingly transformed myself into an aerobics junkie. While I cannot say my spirits soared at all times; fitness eased the emotional strain and saw me through many a difficult day. More than that, I was at home at the gym. If I trusted my heart and not my head, working in the fitness industry was a likely option for me.

I remember precisely when I first tested the waters with respect to the notion of becoming a personal trainer; December 28, 2003. Every year on that date Tony and I join our old and dear of friends, Jayne and Marshall, for Jayne’s birthday party. Three couples traditionally attend. As I sat with the women following supper, I asked my long-trusted friends, Jayne and Betty, both gym members, what they would think of my becoming a personal trainer. They pondered for a moment or two, contemplating the notion. Then, in near unison they encouragingly replied, “I can see that. Perfect. What a great idea!”

The idea also made some sense from a logical viewpoint. Years of training in nutrition dove-tailed nicely with an emerging focus on fitness. I had studied anatomy and physiology both academically and in application. I’d worked in acute care medicine so the technical aspects of the work came easily to me. Moreover, I loved working out and was a veritable fixture in aerobics classes. I had learned my way around the free weights. But more than that, the thought of helping ladies exercise meant that I would be able to give something back. I could do it part-time and thus meet my need for a balanced lifestyle.

As my interest a fitness profession grew, one trifling problem crept in. Thinking of myself training next to the girls who worked at the gym, made me cringe. They were all between the ages of 18 and 22 – or so it seemed. They looked like models and athletes. I looked like someone’s mother, or worse yet grandmother! I felt foolish when I envisioned myself in a trainer’s role.

Nevertheless, after putting the notion out there it nagged at me for some inexplicable reason. My inner voice not only wouldn’t go away, it was giving me a big-intuitive-thumbs-up. I was at a crossroads. Eventually, I decided to lean on a newfound skill, developed in my bereavement: meditation. I silently asked for guidance.

I began to pray for a sign that I was meant to become a trainer. Hence forward, every day when I went to the gym I tried to envision myself helping women exercise. I couldn’t seem to make the vision coincide with my former work-life where I wore buttoned-down business suits or lab coats that conveyed a façade of authority. A tank top and workout tights just wouldn’t have the same impact. Most perplexing of all, my 50^th birthday was just around the corner. Honestly, I ask you, who becomes a personal trainer at 50?

No signs appeared initially. Then, one day, I was at the gym just about to enter an aerobics class. I gazed skyward and said a silent prayer that I receive the sign I had hoped for. Following that, I stopped in the washroom. As virtually all menopausal aerobics enthusiasts know, high impact fitness classes are best commenced with an empty bladder. I entered the stall, sat down, looked forward and there before my very eyes was a sign. I mean a literal SIGN. It read, “Level One course in personal training. Sign up now and certify for a career as a personal trainer.”

No kidding, there I was, seated on the commode, having just prayed for a clear “sign” when a written sign materialized. To this day I wonder if the woman in the next stall wondered what on earth was so funny that her neighbour, concealed in the adjacent booth, was rolling in gales of laughter.

After I composed myself, still resisting “the sign” somewhat, I decided to bargain. I said to Thee Universe, “Okay, if I am really truly supposed to become a personal trainer, make me run into the gym’s fitness manager today.” Nice stalling tactic, don’t you think?

I knew Kim fairly well after my years as a gym rat, although I had not seen her much lately. Well, I left the stall and, SMACK, I was face to face with her. How could I resist?

When I told her that I was interested in taking the personal training certification course her first response was to say, “Do you want to work or just take it for your personal information?”

I shuddered, thinking that she was just about to tell me, as politely as possible, that I was way too old to work as a trainer. On the contrary, she sprouted a huge smile and did a little “happy dance” when she heard my plan. To my amazement she said, “I get a LOT of requests for an older trainer. We could certainly use you.”

I signed up for the course that very day. And to make matters easier, a close friend of mine, who was the gym’s newly appointed head trainer, was taking the same course as a requirement of her promotion. Not only could we could travel together, she had a degree in kinesiology and could coach me through the course. The plan fell seamlessly into place.

As I entered the first session of the course, fear arose anew. I was in a class with 25 other trainees, most of whom looked to be in their early 20’s. It was utterly intimidating to be in a gym setting with rippling-fit youngsters. I was in a mixed gender group. The young women were gorgeous potential bikini models and the boys looked like my 18-year-old daughter’s boyfriends; either that or members of a biker gang. I felt a fraud. Talk about your fish out of water.

More than once, throughout the duration of the training sessions, I second guessed my choice but swallowed both my fear and a little bit of pride to give it my best shot. I was nervous at times and forgot the moves. Once, when it was my turn to demonstrate extemporaneously to the group, I could not for the life of me recall the difference between a press and a flye. None of the kids seemed to suffer from such forgetful senior moments.

Pending senility aside, the corporate head trainers saw something in me, I guess. They hired me straight out of the course to work part-time in the ladies gym where I was a member. I started in April 2004. Somehow, in the three months that had flashed by since I first gave voice to the notion, a vortex appeared to have opened in the universe. A magnetic current pulled me in and shot me out the other side as a fully certified, sweat suit wearing, squat loving, dumb bell toting - personal trainer.

I loved it. The time I spent with my clients was fantastic. I was truly a service to them. Many older women benefited from doing moves in the company of a peer; it made them comfortable. And everyone felt better after exercising, so I laughed a lot with my clients. My new job fit me like a glove. Even though, in this case, it was a Nike training glove!