“Two more.” Or, God forbid, “Three more.”

I focus on a spot a few feet in front of me, willing my calf muscles to contract and help push what seems like an impossibly heavy weight an inch higher. My calves already burn when Aaron, my trainer, says “Three more.” For the first time in 9 weeks, I almost cry. “Breathe!” he tells me.”Come on, you can do this!”

I don’t think I can. He’s delusional. It’s so heavy. But I manage to raise the weight then sit, waiting for the ebb of tension, emotion and self-doubt.

When I joined my local gym earlier this year, I thought I’d use the free one-hour consultation with a trainer to get an overview of the equipment and some pointers on how to achieve my fitness goal. Now, over two months of twice-weekly sessions later, I’ve come to rely on Aaron’s encouragement, advice, support and belief in me. My own personal cheering squad.

Alongside the muscles slowing defining themselves, I’ve also noticed a growing confidence in my work as a writer — especially during those predictable times when I’ve hit a wall and think, “I can’t do this, it’s too hard.”

Sometimes the tears come and, like the Tom Hanks’ character in “League of Their Own,” incredulous when a player begins to cry and tells her, “There’s no crying in baseball,” I hear Aaron telling me, “Suck it up. You can do this.”

And I can. And I do.