Author: Born Crisis

I've hated gym class ever since middle school. I enjoyed it more as a child, when a girl's physical capacity can roughly perform at the same level as a boy. I used to be able to outrun, outthrow, and outperform every kid in the class physically. In middle school, the tables were turned. Gym class was filled with sweaty, fluctuating-testosterone boys competitively flailing around -- kicking, hitting and ready to knock you over on accident. Hell, I remember coming home a few days with scabs over my legs, arms, and even waist. Instead of engaging in interactive sports, the gym teacher offered us the option to hang out in the "weight room", where you could spend an hour and a half walking on a treadmill. At some point, I gave up with competing against pubescent boys and settled for the treadmill during gym class. Afterschool, I ran around outside exploring nature with friends as my daily exercise. 

I had never been exposed to the benefits of weightlifting until early high school. As a woman, I've never felt a expectation to "get strong". In fact, in my family's culture, weaker women are perceived as societally more attractive. At the end of the year, the introductory gym class teacher reviewed our possible class options for the next semester. Lifeguard training. Yoga. Dance. He then reviewed the strength and conditioning class, and discussed the benefits of strength training -- increased bone density, confidence, increased speed, etc. The concept, as a cardio-heavy exerciser, was foreign to me, so I signed up. 

The class of 25 had a total of 3 girls, and I was the only freshman. Since class had an odd number, I was paired with the two other girls. They both weighed over 60 pounds more than me, making our strength levels vastly different from the start. The boys were intimidatingly large in comparison. The coach started off the first couple months teaching us form with PVC pipes. Back squat was first, and then followed by front squat, bench, incline, and hex bar deadlift. Three explosives came afterwards; jerk press, push press, and power clean. After he decided that our form was good enough, we started lifting with iron. 

It felt helpless initially being the weakest person in a group of 25. I dreaded going to class. The girls I lifted with were cliquey and condescending, rolling their eyes after half of what I ever said. Additionally, everyone else had a friend or multiple in the class. As the youngest person in a different grade, all of their faces were unfamiliar, making me feel like an outcast. 

I learned to, however, enjoy the class over time. Most of the days were the same 3 target sets: 10, 8, 6+ reps for squat and bench, 5, 5, 5+ reps for deadlift and explosives. The coach had a requirement for us to get good grades: we had to lift more reps or more weight every class. For example, if you had lifted 8×125 one day, and 0×130, you had the chance to lift 9×125 the next day, or 1×130. You could skimp out on your other two sets as long as you outperformed for one of the three sets. It also counted if we increased total volume for the day.  

At first, I thought I wouldn't be able to meet this requirement. It seemed unlikely especially since an increase of 5 lbs was proportionally greater for me than it was for someone capable of lifting 300 lbs. One of the most rewarding things I learned was that I could. It was thrilling to find out that the lift of which I could barely do 5 sets, I could do 6 just the next week. It was thrilling to see my body break beyond the capacity of what I previously thought was impossible -- and then to just do it all over again, week after week. By the end of the class I was squating triple my initial capability, doubling my max bench, and beating a few of the boys and all the girls in max deadlift.  

There is something enticing and personal about the idea that you can do better every day. See, building strength by itself has never particularly interested me. It still doesn't to this day. On the other hand, there is a freedom in knowing that the impossible is possible. I was a meek, diffident high schooler who has been put down all my life for almost everything -- intelligence, creativity, appearance, perseverence, social skills. I had always felt stuck. I never felt even remotely capable of improving myself. The class and my lifting progress demonstrated the power of belief. From this moment on, I realised that self-confidence is not just a means to make you feel better about your life. Rather, self-confidence is fundamentally intrgral to success. The best thing you can do, when everyone is calling you dumb, uncreative, and lazy, is to tell yourself that you can be smarter, more innovative, and more hardworking than they ever will be. 

Strength is psychological to a large extent, not much unlike other human qualities. On the days I walked into the class and said to myself, "You can't beat 85 today. There's no way," I would fail. On the days I told myself, "Fuck it, I can do it," I managed. Slowly, the number of days increased in which I told myself I could do it. My grades drastically improved that semester, aligning closely with the progress in the gym. I used to tell myself similar narratives with school -- "Emily's too smart, she has an IQ of over 150 and she works very hard. I can't get a better grade than her in physics." My thinking shifted into: "Fuck it, I've got a hell of an intuition, I'm going to get the best grade in the class." And I did, which carried on into college and beyond. Similarly, I became increasing comfortable about my appearance, began to treasure my social skills, and started finding beauty in my creative processes.

What I'm looking for in a gym is a place where I can explore my ability to improve and generate self-confidence, without an environment of constant comparison or criticism. I don't want an environment where others are glancing over pointedly telling me that I'm fucking it up, telling me that my numbers could be better, telling me that I'm inconsistent, telling me that my form is shit. In fact, I don't want feedback like "That's really impressive for someone your size!" either. I simply want to be left alone. I want a place where I can treat lifting as a personal process. I want the gym to be a place where I can work through all my failures, insufficiencies, feelings of meaninglessness, and false narratives and convert them into something optimistic. I want the gym to be a place where I can place my own expectations on myself, even unrealistic ones, and push myself to acheive them. I want to push beyond the capacity of what I think is possible for myself. 

I don't necessarily want to be physically strong. I want to be psychologically strong: resilient to failure and trusting in my ability to become a better person every day. The ideal gym is one where it can safely symbolize a journey toward self improvement without anyone else's input but my own. When others are constantly placing their expectations onto you, whether too high or too low, it's too easy to lose sight of what you truly want for yourself.