The One Change That Worked: A Transformation Through Strength
The one change that worked – My journey toward physical empowerment began with a simple observation. During a casual scroll through social media, I stumbled upon a tweet by Fiona Cummins, a writer I admired, who proudly shared her achievement of deadlifting 100kg. The number itself, bold and unapologetic, sparked a flicker of curiosity in me. I had always viewed exercise as a chore, a means to an end rather than an end in itself. But that moment—seeing a woman with the same kind of body I had long taken for granted—ignited a desire I hadn’t realized was dormant. It was as if the universe had handed me a challenge, and I couldn’t resist.
Back in the 1990s, my family wasn’t known for athletic feats. Sport was a domain for others, not for us. We didn’t cycle or jog; our days were filled with mundane routines and the occasional croissant. In physical education, I was the one who hid behind bins, wheezing as if I’d just twisted my ankle. The idea of working out was vague, a concept I associated with transforming my body into something desirable. Yet, for years, I remained content with the status quo, content to let my back ache and my children wrestle me into submission.
When the first baby arrived two weeks late via C-section, my body was thrust into a new reality. The strain on my spine was immediate, and by the time the second child came along, the pain had become a constant companion. I’d wrestle with toddlers, only to be left breathless and battered. Was this simply the price of aging? I wondered, as the familiar weight of my body seemed to grow heavier with each passing year. I tried everything—physiotherapy, osteopathy, chiropractic adjustments—but nothing alleviated the nagging discomfort. It wasn’t until a friend casually mentioned the concept of a “core” that I began to see a different path.
At first, the suggestion felt like a foreign idea. I had always thought of strength training as a discipline for men, a way to build muscle rather than redefine my relationship with my own body. But desperation and frustration pushed me to give it a shot. With a weekly hour-long session, I started lifting weights that once seemed impossible. The numbers—80kg, 85kg, 90kg—became milestones, each one a testament to my evolving understanding of what my body could do. It was no longer about appearance, but about capability, about proving that strength was within reach.
The transformation wasn’t immediate, nor was it without resistance. I found myself struggling with the same excuses I’d used for years, but something shifted. The incremental progress—each rep, each heavier weight—reawakened the competitive spirit I had long suppressed. I no longer viewed fitness as a punishment, but as a form of self-expression. The days when I relied on others to carry groceries or lift my toddler were numbered. Now, I could swing her over my shoulder with ease, a move I hadn’t mastered until weeks later, and even carry an IKEA order up stairs, assembling it with one hand while balancing the rest.
What surprised me most was how this change reshaped my perception of myself. I was no longer a passive observer in my own body, but an active participant in its potential. The C-section scars, once a source of embarrassment, became symbols of resilience. And for the first time, I felt a sense of control that I hadn’t known was missing. The gym, once a place of discomfort, became a sanctuary. My paddleboard sessions, which I now genuinely enjoy, mirrored that newfound confidence—effortless and fulfilling.
A Shift in Perspective
Strength training was more than just physical exercise; it was a rebellion against internalized misogyny. For years, I had equated fitness with slimness, a narrow standard that left me feeling inadequate. But as I lifted heavier weights, I began to see the power in strength, not as a measure of beauty, but as a declaration of independence. The act of deadlifting 100kg wasn’t just about the number on the scale—it was about reclaiming agency over my body, my health, and my identity.
My journey also highlighted the importance of consistency. While others might have abandoned their routines after a few weeks, I persisted, driven by the satisfaction of small victories. Each session was a step forward, a reminder that progress is not always dramatic, but it is always meaningful. I discovered that my body, once seen as a liability, could be a tool for transformation. The hours spent in the gym were not about vanity, but about building something tangible—a strength that could be felt, measured, and celebrated.
Today, I see fitness as a journey, not a destination. The act of lifting weights, of moving with purpose, has become a part of who I am. It’s no longer just about the physical, but about the mental shift that came with it. I no longer need a man to assist me in lifting heavy objects, nor do I feel the need to apologize for my progress. Instead, I am proud of it, as if the number 100kg on the barbell is a badge of honor.
Conclusion: A New Beginning
Looking back, the catalyst for this change was a single tweet, a moment of clarity that set me on a path I hadn’t anticipated. The result is not just a stronger body, but a stronger sense of self. I’ve gone from being a passenger in my own life to becoming the driver, navigating challenges with a newfound sense of capability. My debut novel, Little Wild, published on June 25, is a reflection of this journey—stories of resilience, growth, and the quiet triumph of self-belief. It’s a reminder that even the smallest changes can lead to the most profound transformations.
“I want to do that.”
That simple phrase, spoken to my personal trainer, became the turning point. What began as a reluctant experiment turned into a lifelong commitment to strength and self-discovery. The road wasn’t always easy, but every step forward was worth it. And now, when I think about the weight I once feared, I smile, knowing it was just the beginning of something much greater.
