“If I don’t see your eyes bulging and your veins popping out, your bar is too light,” Patty says.
I don’t meet my trainer’s eyes. I continue to deadlift what’s in front of me, insistent that I’m struggling. She stops her pacing in front of me, watching.
“More weight, Alexis. You’re barely sweating!” And with that she heads over to grab two 15 pound plates to add to my bar, making my total essentially match my body-weight of 120 pounds.
Damn. She always sees right through me and my lame attempts to get stronger without exerting myself too much. Afraid I may snap my petite frame in half, fragile and slim as I am.
The weights go on, I stare at the bar below me, my mind racing through her instructions—knees bent, abs engaged, extend keeping your back straight…
“Breathe.” She cuts me off mid-thought.
Think less, she reminds me so often. Just do it.
And I did.
That was this summer. I had joined CrossFit, and had been doing it for about a month at that point. And I was starting to see results. The trainers, like Patty, weren’t babying me so much anymore. I was getting a hang of the lifts and they I knew I wasn’t weak. It wasn’t like I could lift a truck over my head as some of the others are practically able to do, but I wasn’t a flimsy twig in the wind either. Sometimes, though, I failed to recognize that. I would approach each lift with caution, heart full of fear that I will break myself, the weight too great for me to bare. And I would curl up inside of that insecurity, that image of myself as capable, but not capable enough to do more, to push just a little bit more.
I doubted myself. Maybe because I still felt like a newbie. Like I didn’t belong. Somehow just wasn’t cut out for the lifting life. Too fragile and needing to be protected. Perhaps because I am a girl, one of skin and bones at that. As if somewhere along the lines my muscle melted into oblivion. Or it didn’t, it’s there, but I—well, more society—doesn’t want everyone to know that. Because what happens when my arms become defined, their strength evident? Perhaps I won’t be considered “pretty.” Perhaps not so “attractive.” Too strong for my own good. For anyone’s own good.
And the more I think about it, the more I smile when I see my muscles growing. Because, with a little pushing, I did do it. I am getting stronger, lifting more, learning to love the bar just as much as I hate it in the midst of a trying workout. I may be cautionary at times, and I don’t always understand why. But more and more I’m learning to put more weight on my bar. With the encouragement of my trainers alongside the push of those struggling to get stronger beside me, like my best friend, Sammy, I am learning to trust my body more. To thrust the weight above my head, eyes bulging out, sweat pouring down, body cursing me out for putting it through this momentary pain, but ultimately, celebrating the moment that I out-lift myself. Beaming when I waddle up the three flights of stairs to class, glutes wincing with each step, reminding me that my body is capable of more than I let myself believe.
