The Hidden Cost of "Hardcore" Coaching

You Can’t Make Someone Love Exercise — But You Can Make Them Hate It

I used to think my job as a trainer was to be the toughest person in the room. Turns out, the real challenge isn’t pushing people to their limits, it’s not pushing them away.

In an industry obsessed with before-and-after photos, six-pack abs, and “no pain, no gain” mantras, it’s easy to forget that the real legacy of a coach isn’t measured in pounds lost or PRs set. It’s measured in how people feel about movement — and about themselves — long after the session ends.

I’ve learned over the years that you can’t make someone love exercise, but you can definitely make them hate it. The real art of coaching isn’t about being the loudest or the toughest. It’s about meeting people where they are, and, most importantly, not making them hate the process.

The Wrong Way

Earlier in my career, as the personal training manager at an Anytime Fitness, I interviewed a candidate who seemed to embody every fitness industry cliché. She was an aspiring “celebrity trainer” (her actual words) with no education, but plenty of attitude. When I acted out a scenario with her to gauge how she’d handle a client struggling with form, she laughed and shouted, “Are you serious right now?” Her idea of a good session was working someone so hard they’d cry (again, her actual words). She clearly saw exercise as something to be imposed — a punishment, not a privilege.

It was a masterclass in how to make someone hate exercise. If you want to breed resentment, shame, and avoidance, just add a dash of narcissism and a pinch of humiliation. That interview stuck with me — not as a model to follow, but as a warning sign. I realized that the fastest way to turn someone off fitness is to make it about your ego, not their journey.

But what does it look like when we do the opposite — when we lead with empathy, not ego?

The Long Game

In the fitness world, we love to talk about “transformations.” But the most dramatic transformation I’ve seen isn’t physical — it’s the moment someone stops dreading exercise and starts looking forward to it.

Enter “Kristi.” For years, Kristi showed up to our weekly sessions, but that was about it. She never worked out on her own, her eating habits didn’t match her goals, and her enthusiasm hovered somewhere between “meh” and “bare minimum.” I’ll admit, I was frustrated. Why keep coming if you’re not going to try?

But I kept showing up, too. I encouraged her, never shamed her, and resisted the urge to turn into a drill sergeant. I figured if nothing else, I could be a positive presence in her week.

Then, one day, it was like a switch flipped. Kristi became a powerhouse — suddenly driven, consistent, and engaged. She later told me that my years of patience and encouragement made all the difference. She needed to know someone wouldn’t give up on her, even when she’d nearly given up on herself.

Sometimes, empathy means playing the long game. It’s about creating a safe space for change to happen on the client’s timeline, not yours.

But empathy isn’t always about patience. Sometimes, it’s about flexibility in the moment.

The Power of Flexibility

Then there was “Paula.” Paula was a go-getter: consistent and engaged at every session. But one day she walked in looking defeated. “Can we just do something light or maybe some easy stretching today?” she asked. I’d spent time crafting the perfect workout for her, but I tossed it aside. Instead, we did gentle mobility work, easy stretching, and — most importantly — I listened. She talked, I listened, and together we moved at her pace.

Afterward, Paula told me that was exactly what she needed — not just physically, but emotionally. She needed a space to unload, to process, and to feel heard. That session convinced her she’d made the right choice in hiring me — not because of my programming, but because I was willing to adapt to her needs.

True coaching is about listening and adapting, not rigidly sticking to a script. This is how you make exercise something to look forward to, not dread.

And sometimes, empathy means knowing when to step back and simply be present.

The Quiet Presence

“Lars” was different. He’d experienced deep trauma, and exercise was his therapy. All he wanted from me was an intense workout and the occasional pointer on form. Otherwise, he needed space — to lose himself in the grind, to process, to heal. At first, I felt useless, just standing back while he trained like an angry boxer in a movie montage.

But after a few weeks, Lars told me, “You’re a good trainer and a good coach. I don’t want someone who tries to talk me through the workout — I just need someone to be here while I process this.” That moment flipped a switch for me. Empathy isn’t always about what you do — sometimes, it’s about what you don’t do. For Lars, my silent presence was the support he needed.

Each of these stories taught me that empathy isn’t a single technique — it’s a mindset, a willingness to sense what each person needs, and to avoid turning exercise into something they hate.

The Theme

Looking back, the common thread is clear: people don’t hate exercise — they hate feeling judged, pushed, or ignored. They hate when exercise becomes a punishment or a performance. The difference between loving and hating movement isn’t the workout itself — it’s the experience.

When we lead with empathy, flexibility, and presence, we create the conditions for people to discover joy, confidence, and even healing in movement. We make exercise something they can love — or at least, something they don’t dread.

The Call to Action

So here’s my challenge: If you’re a trainer, a coach, or even just a workout buddy, ask yourself — how do you want to be known? As the person who made someone hate exercise, or the one who helped them find their own way to love it?

Let’s redefine what it means to be a coach. Let’s be the kind of people who make others feel seen, heard, and supported.

You can’t make someone love exercise — but you can make them hate it. Or, if you’re lucky, you can help them discover something even better: the joy of moving, on their own terms.