Have We Turned Exercise into Identity?
Courtesy of Jacquemus
Have We Turned Exercise into Identity?
with Marsha Lindsay, Johanna Engvall and Élodie Ouédraogo
By HURS Team
Exercise has long been linked to aspiration. But increasingly, movement is read as something more—an index of values, a proxy for class, even a soft political stance. In a culture obsessed with optimisation and performance, the gym has become both stage and sanctuary. One's workout of choice can be as revealing as one's bookshelf. But are we projecting meaning where there is none—or simply uncovering what was always there?
In spring 2025, a fitness influencer ignited millions of views by drawing a line between Pilates and Trump-era conservatism. Her argument: body ideals swing with political tides—slender, feminine frames during conservative periods, muscular builds during feminist waves. The backlash was immediate, but the conversation revealed something uncomfortable.
The language around fitness has shifted too. We no longer simply "exercise"—we "train," we "optimize," we "invest in ourselves." Rest days become "active recovery." The body is perpetually a project, never quite finished, always capable of improvement. The boutique studio with its £200 classes speaks differently than the council leisure centre. The ultramarathon runner carries different connotations than someone doing home workouts on YouTube. These distinctions are woven through with assumptions about discipline, privilege, and who deserves to occupy space.
And yet, beneath all this self-surveillance, something else persists: the primal pleasure of movement, the clarity that comes after exertion, the strange democracy of shared effort. What does the politicisation of fitness reveal about our current cultural moment? How do class, gender, and race intersect with our ideas of health and movement? Is the joy of physical exertion still accessible in a world of social signifiers? Can the act of working out return to being communal rather than coded?
We asked three experts for their take.