I grew up in Florida. I loved it there; I had many close friends, a sense of belonging, a dream horse I’d raised from the day she was born, and a bright future ahead. I loved my school, church, and community. I loved swimming with my family in the back yard and tagging along with my dad to work. We caught lizards, watched news reruns during hurricanes, tubed down rivers and swam in natural springs. It was the life.
In what seemed like an instant, my life changed. In a family discussion, we had talked about the possibility of moving, though unlikely, and ultimately decided it was not something we were going to pursue. But things changed, and my dad got a last-minute job transfer to Utah. We would be gone in just a few months
I felt ripped apart from the inside out. I was shy and insecure, so the friends I’d made meant everything to me. My little horse would have to be sold. I’d be going to a new high school in the middle of hick-town that had very little to offer in the way of collegiate preparation and even less in social inclusion. The youth group at church included one girl 4 years younger than me and 3 boys, one of which was my brother. My dad would have an office job, so no more fun bring-your-kid-to-work trips. Utah was cold for way too much of the year and almost the least exotic place you could imagine, so even the adventures would be lacking.
During my junior year in high school, I desperately needed a social environment. I was so lonely and bored and I noticed the swim team seemed like a tight group of supportive friends. Plus there were some cute boys. So I joined. I had never swam competitively before in my life. The extent of my watersport knowledge ended at “hands up stand up,” so this was a complete leap of faith. Because I was too shy to actually make friends with the “cool” (varsity) swimmers, I mostly kept to myself and socialized with whoever noticed/talked to me.
One of these people was a boy I shared a class with as a sophomore. We’ll call him John. John seemed funny, kinda edgy, and he was decently attractive. I asked John to a girl’s choice dance with some of my other swim friends and things settled in from there. John and I started dating and within a couple of weeks, I was ignoring red flags through the blissful lens of infatuation. I was noticed, I was wanted, I had a place. Riding high on cloud 9 seemed ample compensation for the scattered moments of discomfort I felt.
As weeks turned to months and months turned to years, those moments had a way of increasing and becoming less justifiable. By the time we graduated high school, I was a different person. My moral center was quite askew. My confidence, though rickety to begin with, was nonexistent. I was being controlled, manipulated, and threatened and I didn’t even know it. I went to college a few hundred miles away and was able to regain a little footing, but was still ultimately tied to John’s conditions he’d set for me before going away. I found myself isolated; I wanted to make new friends so badly, but every time I’d go out John would get very upset and question my loyalties. I am nothing if not loyal, so I would apologize and dedicate myself to my studies. John would applaud this so I let it slide.
After returning home from a year in college, I began pushing John away. I felt so uncomfortable and directionless with my life and I felt like he was the haze I couldn’t see through. Naturally, John resisted and somehow kept me around. But it was rocky. During one of our “breaks”, I decided to get out and date as much as I could. However, this was not coming from a place of liberation or exploration. It was coming from a place of feverish insecurity and social isolation. Even though I’d had a steady boyfriend, I felt more alone and unwanted than ever. I had been told several times no one else would want me at this point, because so many “firsts” had been claimed by John. No other guy would be interested anymore. I had to put this to the test.
Turns out this wasn’t true. Unfortunately, the vibe I put out and the attention I drew was not from guys who cared one iota where the “goods” had been. I spent a whole summer dating loser after loser, and likely dodging a bullet after my feeble intuition kicked in and made me physically ill before one date. I canceled and never heard from him again.
It all culminated one night when I had a second date with “Nick.” Nick was different. Charming (ahem: red flag. Always.), family guy, sweet, upstanding young gentleman. When I got to Nick’s apartment, everything felt off. I shrugged it off. I was very good at that by now. As the night progressed, I eventually fell down the steep, muddy end of the slippery slope I’d been walking the last 3 years. Or I was pushed. Either way, that night, I found myself at rock bottom, sitting on the bathroom floor wondering what had just happened and how I’d let myself get to this point.
School started up again and this time, I was at a different college. Things eventually ended for good with John and I felt like I was just floating through life for a while. I was sharing an apartment with my best friend and I had recently met the man I’d later marry. And I still had swimming. I got a gym membership and swam every night. I relied on my roommate and new guy-friend to give me courage and support through my story. I eventually had the courage to seek the help I needed to start healing and forgive myself.
Fast forward a couple of years and I still found myself struggling with lingering insecurities and mindsets from my previous relationship that were damaging my life and my marriage. I decided nothing was going to change until I at least felt confident in my body. Swimming had kept me in ok shape, but I’d put on some weight and was really struggling mentally.
I reached out to a personal trainer I found in the classifieds. When I entered his gym, I almost turned around and left. Like swimming, I’d never truly lifted before. I had expected machines, cardio equipment, and dumbbells. There were, in fact, dumbbells. And barbells. And some rack-looking things. An apparatus that looked like you could do some pull-ups on it, but clearly, that wasn’t it’s the main purpose. There were funny round things that were heavy and funny red things that you pulled and a funny long thing that had a bike chain and a handle on it (translation: kettlebells, sleds, and a concept rower). After my 1st mock training session, my coach might as well have handed me my own butt on a silver platter. It was so bad, and I felt so embarrassed.
But I liked it. I came back three times a week and although I struggled at every turn, I found victories. One day, I’d jump a little higher or with more confidence. I’d catch a ball. I’d finish a workout. I’d lift a little more. A new movement would click. My coordination improved. I learned how to actually exercise! I knew what I was doing was intense and I felt accomplishment in that. I loved the pain.
After a three month trial period with this coach, I took some time off. I found a therapist who helped me on the other end of things. We moved a couple of towns north and each day, I went to the gym and practiced what I’d done over the last 90 days. I drilled movements I was weak at. I gained some strength. I found fire and passion that had been dormant for several years. It fed into itself and each day I was able to grasp a little more purpose in daily life. I was able to chip away at the wall that had been built around my younger, more vibrant self. The strength I was building on the outside started to overflow into other aspects of my life.
I ended up going back to work with that same coach and stayed with him for the next 4 or 5 years. I learned more about strength training and nutrition. By the time I was happy with how I looked, it mattered so much less than it did when I started my journey. I was fueled by the progress I was making and consistently inspired by what my body could do. I found myself channeling hurt, insecurity, regret, and doubt into the iron; I was forged into a new being by it. I cannot be kept down. I cannot be stepped on, used or manipulated. I am powerful. I am a force to be reckoned with. Strength training has helped me believe this and it has led to immense growth in every aspect of my life.
I often wonder how different things could have been if I’d realized this inner strength earlier. If I had learned to lift at 15, when I was crushed by the impact of our move or even earlier as I started to develop social and physical insecurities, I likely would have had the confidence and passion to get me through some of those tougher adjustments. I might have saved myself the pain of being used and abused by those only looking out for themselves. I might have had the gumption to stand for myself.
I feel compelled to use my experience and what I’ve learned to strengthen the generations of women behind me. I am driven to instill this sense of resiliency and unbreakableness in them so they don’t have to struggle as I did. I want them to feel empowered, so when they make their decisions, they aren’t driven by fear and insecurity. I want those decisions to come from a place of power, a foundation they built for themselves on which they can build lives of abundance. I firmly believe if I had to go through this to perform this mission, then it is all worth it!
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