One of my nicknames from my husband is The Stair Lift. When he is having a flare up, I help him get around. After a particularly busy day, I had to manoeuvre him onto my back and carry him up to bed.
It was awkward, we have narrow stairs. It was silly, we laughed too much. It was necessary. And I was out of breath.
As part of my transition, I wanted to get buff, with a muscle bear physique. That was my side quest. It's by no means a universal trans-masc thing, but it was mine.
I struggled with training pre-transition because I was struggling with my body. When I began transitioning, I tried again. It was a long journey, but I found Powerlifting and Strongman. I call it “grunt work”. I love it.
It is frustrating when the universal guidance of “try exercise” works, because it’s much easier to say that than it is to do the work. Still, I take it as a personal slight every time it proves true.
As a transgender person, partaking in any sport has its risks. The political right is desperate to keep trans people out of sports at all costs. Trans women get the brunt of it, and strength sports are no different.
At the 2025 Official Strongman Games World Championships, a trans woman initially won the women’s Open category, but was later disqualified under rules that only allowed ‘biologically female’ competitors to compete.
The internet fallout kept many trans people away from Strongman for some time. The rampant transphobia on forums, in social media posts, and from fitness influencers jumping on it for views was intense.
The Trans+ community is used to this reaction to our existence. Trans women even get banned from chess tournaments. Trans men must play in the women’s football league.
To compete in sports, we are left with little choice but to out ourselves. If we do, we can be removed from the field. If we do not and try to compete alongside our cisgender peers, we risk discovery and forced removal. Both involve public shaming.
Whilst medical transition helped my gender dysphoria, it could only do so much for my general body dysmorphia. Skinny culture in the early 2000s completely eroded my understanding of body shape, and I had lost the ability to visualise my body at all.
I turned to training to try and rebuild a connection with my body.
I’ve learnt how to fuel it. I’ve learnt to listen to its signals and trust it to move for me. My coaches taught me to squat, bench press, and deadlift, and, in turn, my body taught me to trust its ability to perform the movements without constant instruction.
After years of monitoring how I walked, how my hands moved, how I stood, strength training taught me how to accept the body I have as mine. It is still a work in progress. I still need a reminder for many things. I am only human after all.
The gym spaces I have travelled through have given me a community I’d lacked. At The Barbell Division, part of the Safe Space Southampton initiative,I have not only moved weights I never thought possible, but found a circle of friends and a support network I didn’t know I could have.
Spaces that welcome Trans+ and queer people are deeply important. Especially places like a gym, where you are pushing your limits or may inherently feel vulnerable. Feeling safe and comfortable are crucial to our wellbeing.
Through training I am learning what my body can do and to accept it as it is.
But it is because of strength training that I can carry my husband when his legs can’t. I can help move furniture for friends. I can turn up for my loved ones – training refills my well, so the water can be shared with others.
It's this combination of community and growing in physical strength that gives me a sense of belonging I hadn’t found before - and it’s powerful.
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