Online Personal Trainer News: Editorial Chapter 1 – Move With Ally
- Ally Britton
- Feb 26
- 6 min read
Updated: Mar 6
Online personal trainer, fitness coach, online dance teacher, and accidental adventurer — Move With Ally from West Sussex to sunny Malta. This is chapter 1, and where Ally's journey begins.
Hi. Hello. Welcome. If you’ve somehow stumbled across this diary thinking you were about to get some serious, polished “fitspo” vibes — I’m going to stop you right there. That’s not me. This is not that. There will be sweat, yes. There will be workouts, yes. But mostly? There will be laughter, a few tears, a very judgmental pooch called Oscar, and maybe some smoothies.
I’m Ally — the slightly chaotic, usually cheerful, definitely under-caffeinated human behind Move With Ally, your overly honest, possibly too small, definitely pink-haired dance and fitness teacher. Age? 23.Height? Questionably low. Profession? Dance teacher, fitness coach, part-time therapist (unofficial, unpaid), and full-time enthusiast for snacks and stretch breaks.
***
I come from a tiny, storybook town called Arundel in England — and yes, it has a castle. No, it’s not the one from Frozen. (Believe me, every child I’ve ever taught has asked.) But Arundel is beautiful — cobbled streets, countryside hills, cafés where the staff still know your name, and enough pigeons to form a small army.
I loved growing up there — mostly. There were days I felt like a Disney princess (minus the ballgowns and spontaneous musical numbers), and other days where I just wanted to escape. Especially when I was at school.
Here’s the truth: I’m dyslexic. Like, deeply, chronically dyslexic. If you’ve ever watched someone try to spell “Wednesday” out loud and panic halfway through — that’s me, but all the time. School wasn’t kind to brains like mine. I struggled. Reading was hard. Tests were torture. But the stage? The studio? That was where I felt powerful. That was mine.
***
Enter: Dance
The first time I stepped into a ballet class, I was about five. My bun was crooked, my tights were backwards, and I fell over during the warm-up — but I was in love. Dance made sense in a way nothing else did. I could express myself, without needing to spell it. I was just… free.
Fast forward a few years (okay, a lot of years), and now I’m a qualified dance teacher, choreographer, RAD ballet instructor, and a personal trainer. I teach dance classes to kids during the evening — and honestly, it’s the best part of my life.
The little ones are adorable. One of them once gave me a crumpled sticker that said “bestest teacher” and I’ve kept it in my wallet ever since. The teens are great too, though sometimes they tower over me. I’m 5 foot 2, which makes me the shortest person in every group photo — including the under-10s class. Once, a parent actually mistook me for a student. While I was teaching. In full teacher gear. Like… ma’am, please.
I’m not bitter, but I do feel personally victimised by tall people. Especially those over 5’3”. Must be nice up there.
***
From England to Mediterranean chaos and the little island of Malta
After years of grey skies and overpriced coffee, I decided to go adventuring. And now? I live on the little island of Malta — a sun-drenched gem in the Mediterranean that’s somehow both paradise and oven. It’s beautiful, don’t get me wrong — turquoise sea, golden cliffs, people who actually say "ciao" and mean it. But the heat? It’s no joke. I sweat just thinking about going outside.
But it’s worth it. The sea’s ten minutes away, the sunsets are free therapy, and I get to wear shorts in December. And besides — who doesn’t want to live in the Mediterranean at least once?
But Malta? Malta is tiny.
Like, drive-across-the-entire-country-in-under-an-hour tiny. You could trip and end up in the sea. The roads curve like a toddler drew them. Google Maps just gives up and cries.
And the driving?
People say the Maltese “drive in the shade.” It’s a joke. Obviously. (Sort of.) But most days it feels true. Indicators are a suggestion. Lanes are… artistic. I once watched someone do a three-point turn in the middle of a roundabout and everyone just politely let them finish. No honking. Just vibes.
It's Hot. Like, Real Hot.
Let’s talk about the heat.
Malta isn’t just “summer holiday” hot. It’s “just got out of the shower and need another one” hot. “Changed clothes three times and still sticky” hot. The sun doesn’t rise — it attacks. You learn to carry deodorant like it’s your religion.
I once opened my car door and burnt my hand on the steering wheel. I now drive with oven mitts. (Only half kidding.)
But somehow, I love it.
A Small Island With a Big Heart
Despite the heat and chaos, Malta is home. It’s the kind of place where strangers wave hello, the postman knows your dog’s name, and the cashier tells you if the tomatoes aren’t good that week.
It’s not that different from Arundel, really — just with less fog and more seafood.
Weekends are spent on boats — floating in crystal blue sea, eating pineapple from plastic tubs, shouting “WATCH THE ROCKS!” at friends who’ve had too much wine. We anchor near coves with ridiculous names, dive in like sea gremlins, and dry off under a sun that doesn’t believe in personal space.
It’s hot. It’s messy. It’s magic.
The Boyfriend
My boyfriend came with me (more of him later), and so did my sweet, squishy, slightly spoiled dog Oscar — a rescue Shih Tzu who looks like a teddy bear and acts like royalty. Oscar is my emotional support animal, co-pilot, and best friend. My boyfriend swears I love the dog more than him. I deny it. But he's probably right. (Don’t tell him I said that.)
***
The Car Situation
I drive a white car. Don’t ask me the make — I haven’t a clue. It’s white, it moves, and the air con sometimes works. That’s good enough for me. My boyfriend says I should take it in to get that weird rattling noise checked out, but I say: that’s what the stereo is for. Turn up the volume and pretend it’s fine. Problem solved. He says that’s not how cars work. But what does he know? He doesn't even dance.
***
Becoming an Online Fitness Coach
When the world went sideways and everything moved online, I did too. At first, I thought it was temporary. A few classes here and there. But something amazing happened: I started to build a community. From Zoom workouts to sweaty Sunday stretch sessions, I found people — real people — showing up, moving with me, laughing with me, crying through burpees with me. And I loved it. I still do.
Some of them have become real friends. We check in after class. We talk about life, stress, annoying mums, adorable dogs, and how to do a plank without dying. I don’t make loads of money from it (honestly, I could probably make more folding towels at a spa), but it fills my cup.
Sometimes I wonder if I missed my calling as a therapist. But then I remember I’d probably mix up my clients’ names and accidentally call their trauma a “tight lower back.” Again — dyslexia.
***
A Little More Chaos
Recently, I’ve started taking pole dance classes — and I’m obsessed. It’s empowering, it’s tough, and it makes me feel like a total badass. It’s mostly women, which I love. But one time? A guy turned up. In briefs. Just briefs. No shorts. No shame. I still haven’t recovered.
He did one spin, and I swear I saw my life flash before my eyes — not because it was impressive, but because I was trying not to make direct eye contact with that situation. I’ve never focused so hard on my ceiling in my life.
***
Why I’m Writing This
So why this diary? Because I’ve always wanted to write. I’ve filled notebooks with half-finished thoughts and stories and weird little observations. But I never showed anyone because, well — dyslexia. I always worried people would think it wasn’t good enough. Or laugh at the spelling. Or just not get me.
But lately, I’ve realised — screw it. This is my story. Messy, real, slightly sweaty, always heartfelt. It doesn’t have to be perfect to be worth sharing.
So here we are: A tiny trainer from a castle town, living on a sun-drenched rock, teaching dance, dodging pole dancers in briefs, and writing a diary that may or may not be read by someone other than my mum (hi Mum, stop calling me during classes).
***
If you’re still reading this — thank you. I hope you laugh. I hope you relate. And if you ever want to work out with me (or just hear more stories about Oscar), come find me on Social Media.
Oscar says hi.
Stay tuned for next week’s chapter, where Ally navigates her first online personal training session and meets her best friend. You won’t want to miss the laughs and lessons from online personal training and dance!
📸 Instagram / TikTok : @Move_With_Ally
This chapter is part of my Online Personal Trainer Stories, humorous fictional stories inspired by teaching dance and fitness classes online.
Ally is an online personal trainer offering live online fitness, pilates, ballet and stretch classes for women across the UK.
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