At my local Blink Fitness—which is now a PureGym—I recently worked in sets with another woman on the assisted pull-up machine. For me, the vibe was utter relief. No one was being rude about sharing equipment, it didn’t feel remotely competitive, and there was a safety and solidarity in being the only two women in that quadrant of the gym at that moment. For a brief window, the gym felt like a space for both catharsis and camaraderie. Unfortunately, this moment only made me realize how rare this sort of shared gym culture has become.
Truthfully, I don’t know if gym culture was ever for me. The stereotype is it’s all bros, right? I’m no Joey Swoll, self-described “CEO of gym positivity,” one of those influencer types with a manic positivity that’s either repellent or inspiring, depending on who you ask. As a casual gym-goer and as a woman, I’ve always felt the need to strike the perfect balance between exuding confidence and staying somewhat invisible. That’s not exactly a recipe for community.
So I could say a lot about what this piece is not about. It’s not about “being a woman” and dodging sexual harassment. It’s not about class studios, either, which have their own worlds and Pilates-based politics.
My focus today is on something simpler and broader: the quiet disappearance of gym culture, and what’s been lost as solo at-home workouts become increasingly high-tech and accessible. My job has deepened this strange distance. I spend my days testing the latest smart rowing machines, adjustable dumbbells, and stair steppers—equipment so sophisticated and convenient that the question isn’t whether you can replicate a gym experience at home, but why you’d bother leaving at all. I’ve cycled through enough gear to outfit a small fitness studio, each piece promising to deliver professional results without the commute, the membership fees, or the potential for uncomfortable interactions. And it works. The technology is legitimately impressive.
But something has been lost in this seamless transition to convenience. I write this now with a bit of a naive, romanticized gaze, wondering what life could’ve been like for me if I were a big, friendly man in the idealized gym culture of yore. From this vantage point, what is this ideal gym culture that I’m even imagining? And is it worth mourning something that may have never truly existed for everyone?
The quiet disappearance of shared gym culture
As smart home fitness tech increases, we’re trading community for convenience, and we might not get it back. Echo Wang, a certified yoga teacher and founder of Yoga Kawa, says, “the gym used to be a social anchor. People went not just to work out, but to belong.” Now that home fitness equipment has made working out at home simple, that gym atmosphere is fading. Wang says that watching someone push themselves hard beside you provided extra motivation—it was infectious. Those conversations between sets kept people engaged, while exercising alone at home makes it simpler to skip workouts and lose momentum.
Even those who still attend gyms exist in isolated worlds, noise-canceling headphones blocking out the sounds of clanking weights and ambient energy that once made gyms feel alive. Eye contact has disappeared, small talk has vanished—only repetitions and personal playlists remain. “Convenience gets you going,” Wang says, “but being part of something keeps you coming back.”
Dr. Jesse Shaw, associate professor of sports medicine at University of Western States, says he built his training philosophy around competitive energy. From his military days through his current work in collegiate athletics, he’s pursued being the biggest and fastest person in the gym—and when he wasn’t, that drove him to train harder. He sees how home technology can fill this gap, pointing to how Peloton created a community and culture around their equipment that mimics this motivational aspect.
But Shaw has also witnessed troubling changes. He’s observed an unfortunate shift for dedicated gym-goers who want to focus on serious training without being filmed or waiting for someone to complete their “workout” content creation. As I recently covered, posting workouts online has become less about documenting personal progress and more about performing fitness for an audience—a shift that fundamentally changes the gym environment itself. The era of classic “meat heads”—big, burly people moving serious weight—has largely disappeared. Shaw also notes the changing group dynamics: During his military service, he was comfortable training alone and would simply ask someone nearby for a spot when needed. Now, he sees most people arrive in groups and tend to avoid lifting heavy weight efficiently.
Shaw believes the at-home workout convenience that emerged from social and medical necessity remains a valuable exercise option. However, he’s witnessed numerous gym closures due to weak attendance and poor recovery of membership numbers. Technology has altered both the pace and focus of current gym-goers, creating a need to document and share workouts online to feel a sense of accomplishment. Some home technologies, like Peloton, depend heavily on social features, building a culture and shared drive to improve and compete on leaderboards.
The type of gym you go to matters
Cost and type play a huge role in gym dynamics. My colleague Lindsey Ellefson shared how when she taught spin at the NYU community gym, which is free for students, she found the environment to be talkative, friendly, and wildly collegiate. But where she works now, a “luxury gym,” feels much more insular and everyone is kind of closed off. In the same vein, I spoke with a friend who has a gym in his apartment building, who told me how interacting with people you know are your neighbors can feel safer and easier compared to walking up to total strangers at a bigger establishment.
For Kris Herbert, founder and owner of The Gym Venice, the cultural deterioration goes deeper. He’s particularly concerned about low-cost, high-volume “value” gyms, where minimal financial and personal investment leads to vanishing individual responsibility. This lack of ownership creates spaces that are frequently dirty, disorganized, and dangerous. These gyms are places people use, rather than belong to.
Herbert has tracked a clear cultural transformation: People once trained together, spotted each other, and conversed between sets—now most members train in isolation, earbuds inserted, eyes averted. There was a time when entering the gym felt like walking into “Cheers,” where everyone knew your name. That community feeling has been largely replaced by convenience.
Part of this shift stems from accessibility: Today, you can find answers to virtually any training question online without human interaction. While access to credible information can accelerate progress, it can’t replicate the accountability, camaraderie, and shared energy of training with others.
Herbert emphasizes that the social dimension of training is one of the most undervalued performance enhancers available. When you work out alongside others who notice your effort, encourage your development, and hold you accountable, you naturally push harder, maintain better consistency, and enjoy the experience more. That sense of belonging fuels not only better gym results but also enhanced mood, confidence, and overall mental health.
How we can rebuild gym culture
To rebuild this culture, Herbert suggests starting small. Introduce yourself to regulars, offer to spot someone, ask a question, acknowledge someone’s consistency. These simple interactions remind us that fitness encompasses social, emotional, and deeply human elements beyond the physical. The gym should be somewhere people not only grow stronger but also belong.
Smart fitness technology has made training more accessible—you can follow programs, track metrics, and receive feedback from your living room. But while this convenience eliminates friction, it also eliminates connection. The human elements of training—the cues, corrections, and shared energy—truly drive long-term progress and fulfillment. Smart technology might make working out easier, but it will never replace the power of human connection.
I still test equipment at home. I still appreciate the convenience of rolling out of bed and onto a rowing machine without navigating complicated social dynamics or waiting for equipment. But I’ve started going back to the gym twice a week, trying to figure out what this whole gym culture thing could mean for someone like me.
Maybe that ideal gym culture I’m imagining—the one where people belonged, where community thrived—was always more accessible to some than others. Maybe it was never perfect. But hey, even an imperfect community beats isolation. And maybe, if we’re intentional about it, we can build something better than what came before—one shared set on the assisted pull-up machine at a time.
