From CrossFit to Hyrox: A Personal Journey

A few years back, I really dove into CrossFit. Not just casually—it was a complete commitment. Early morning classes, protein-focused diets, and I found myself speaking a language that my friends and family struggled to understand.

It was effective, though. I got stronger, really strong, but over time, what had begun as discipline began to feel more like an obsession. Sure, the workouts were intense, but the community seemed almost fixated on identity and belonging, as if the answer to life’s challenges lay solely in lifting weights.

Eventually, I reached a point where I had to step back. It felt like a cult, reminiscent of a Hollywood film without the dramatic endings. There were a lot of rules, but they seemed insubstantial. Pain was worn like a badge of honor, while taking a break felt oddly shameful. Like many who distance themselves from a relentless group, I predictably sought a new one.

Enter Hyrox.

20 Meters of Agony

If CrossFit emphasizes variety, Hyrox is all about consistency. Each year, participants tackle the same grueling tests—eight one-kilometer runs interspersed with workout stations that seem designed to strip away your pride.

A heavy sled push turns legs to jelly, while the burpee long jump feels like a deal with fate. And don’t forget the farmer’s carry—20 meters of pure misery. The workouts are predictable, which somehow makes it even harder.

What started as a small gathering of enthusiasts has now evolved into a global phenomenon, with hundreds of thousands of Americans eager to participate. Last year alone, around 70,000 lined up for the Hyrox race.

Everything is quantifiable. There are timing chips, age categories, leaderboards—the very tools to keep you humble. And as someone fully invested in this world, I can’t claim to be above it. I get it.

Something Fundamental

I’ve competed in races in places like the UK, Ireland, and Thailand. The scene in Thailand is particularly surreal—palm trees swaying as vendors sell cheap electronics, all while we prepare for a showdown that will test our mental limits. Yet amid the chaos, there’s a shared understanding that pain is a universal concept.

Hyrox isn’t for everyone, and it shouldn’t be advertised as such. There’s a trend these days to sell extreme fitness regimes as if they could universally heal every personal issue. While some may find stability in this structure—helping their days feel more grounded—others might just be avoiding deeper problems. I’ve encountered people whose emotional intensity could easily raise alarms if not channeled properly. You can’t simply squat your way out of every issue; eventually, reality will hit.

Comfortably Numb

The widespread appeal of Hyrox reflects something unsettling about our current life. We’re incredibly comfortable, yet still restless. People willingly seek out pain: paying for race entries and expensive gear to feel a sense of rejuvenation. Hyrox offers no negotiations—only choices to run or relent. The feedback is constant and unforgiving.

This simplicity, however, created another inevitable escalation: Olympic aspirations.

A new scientific board, consisting of experts from across countries, hints at Hyrox’s ambition for credibility. Standardization, performance metrics, and rigorous analysis are being thrown into the 2032 vision. On paper, it seems logical. The format is set, the results clear. If other quirky events get a nod from the Olympics, why not this one, which feels like a true test of endurance?

Going Mainstream

Traditionally, the Olympics have embraced unique passions, turning them into celebrated sports. The same could be said for Hyrox; it might seem silly, but so do many Olympic events like speed walking and synchronized swimming. Absurdity, it seems, has never been a barrier to acceptance.

The real question isn’t whether Hyrox should become an Olympic sport. It’s what happens when a grassroots trend hits the mainstream. The passion shifts as scale takes over, like a once-indie band hitting the big league. What thrived on close-knit communities may begin to lose its raw edge.

No matter the outcome, I find myself back on the starting line—be it in Dublin, Bangkok, or London. I’ve tasted the Kool-Aid, am aware of what’s inside, and I’m still reaching for more. There’s no formal exit. No recovery protocol. I can’t claim to have profound insights, but what I do know is, in a world full of differing opinions, when confronting a challenge that simply requires putting one foot in front of the other, we often find a fleeting sense of relaxation while attempting to tackle it.