The gym you quit was designed for you to quit.
Big-box floors are built around throughput. Four hundred members, ninety machines, a bank of televisions, and a front desk whose actual job is renewals. Nobody there is responsible for whether you get stronger. That isn't cynicism — it's just the business model, and it works fine for the people selling it.
We built the opposite on purpose. One room, eight platforms, a rack of oak-handled bells and enough plates for everyone in it. No mirror wall, no screens, no sales floor. If you walk in and nobody says your name in the first ten seconds, something has gone wrong.
What that buys you is boring and it is the whole point: someone is watching your third rep and adjusting your fourth. Someone remembers what your back did in February. Progress stops being a thing you hope for and starts being a thing that is written down.