I arrive at the gym each morning at six, and she’s already there. Always there. I’ve started calling her Ruby in my head, those worn red leather slip-ons gave her the name. Though they’re about as appropriate for a gym as you can get. But somehow they’re perfect for her.

I walk toward my usual warm-up spot and catch sight of her legs poking out from the leg press machine, black socks pulled up neat and covering her toes poking out the front of her slip ons, that grey tracksuit that matches her perfectly maintained bob. She gets that hair cut every week, I’d bet money on it. The precision of it, the way it sits – it tells you everything about someone who still takes care of herself, still has standards, still shows up.
But here’s the thing: she doesn’t really exercise. She sits on that leg press, maybe moves between two machines total, but mostly she just… exists there. No phone, no earbuds, just staring somewhere I can’t see. It’s not about the workout – it’s about being there, about starting her day acknowledging her body, respecting what it still does for her.

I wonder what drives someone to need that six AM anchor point. Maybe she goes home to a house full of memories and silence. Maybe there’s a husband who’s checked out, or children who never call, or worst of all, a child who can’t call anymore. And perhaps if I am not being overly dramatic, a pretty standard life with a husband and kids and grandkids. But she shows up anyway, says her hellos to the gym regulars, probably stops at the supermarket, waves to her neighbour walking by.

Though Ruby with her ruby slippers, clicking them together not to go home, but to stay present in a world that might feel like it’s moving on without her. Focussed on ripped abs, selfies, and not yet seeing what she sees.