I Accidentally Dropped A Weight Class and Other Misadventures

“This kind of feels like a spa treatment.” I watched my knees as the hot water in the bath closed and unclosed around them. I felt the hair at the back of my neck grow wet as I tried to submerge my body as fully as possible. The water distorted the image of the flesh lying beneath it–shortening an already short torso, warping the shape of my legs and arms into alien appendages. I wore a purple thong because Kyle, watching me step stark naked into the hot bath, suggested some sort of underwear as protection from the temperature of the water. Not sure cotton would protect me from the water’s heat–or that certain portions of my body really needed extra protection–I put the thong on anyway.

“Okay, let’s get out for a few minutes,” Kyle said, looking at his phone. It was my third trip into the epsom-salted water. My heart rate skyrocketed as I slowly elevated myself from my prone position in the tub to standing, watching for any beginning signs of faintness. Already dehydrated, I had to be careful about sweating out weight at this point in my weight cut. It wasn’t really necessary, but the half pound I lost in the water allowed me to eat an entire bag of almonds in the middle of my over 24-hour fast.

An hour or two before weighing in--notice how sunken my eyes are. Makeup application was pretty disturbing that day.
An hour or two before weighing in–notice how sunken my eyes are. Makeup application was pretty disturbing that day.

I’ve written a fair amount about weight classes and weight cuts in this blog. I am doing so again because I believe this is an aspect of powerlifting that remains mysterious, glamorized and almost fetishized–particularly when it comes to women doing it. When executed well, as my cut from 130.8 to 122 pounds was for my meet last weekend, performing a water cut is physically safe. Even when executed well–and absolutely certainly when not executed well–the likelihood a weight cut will impact performance in some way on meet day is a solid one.

I had not planned on cutting to 123 for my meet. Originally, I was coming into it weighing at or below the 132 weight class I had intended on occupying, and I was entirely ok with that. When Kyle informed me that I could potentially take the all time world record total and deadlift at 123, my usual “screw large weight cuts” stance shifted. Or rather, it didn’t, because I have said over and over again that weight cuts should not be pursued by novice lifters at all, and only pursued after some meet experience AND if there are serious records or rankings on the line. And I stand by my stance on this. I will also say that I did not intentionally drop weight/lean out leading up to this meet–a practice common among female powerlifters working to make a certain weight class. Two things happened that led to my accidental weight drop: I changed my diet and my level of activity changed significantly outside of my normal training. As far as my diet goes, I shifted from a “crazy deficit punctuated by weekly refeeds/cheat meals” to “an extremely small deficit with straight up zero deviation from the daily diet for four months straight except for this one day where I passed out while getting a tattoo and ate a huge sandwich and potato chips so I wouldn’t keep passing out.” Activity levels shifted from largely sedentary outside of lifting to for to five days a week of constant motion for three to four hours straight training other people. I saw my weight drop from 138 around the time I got married in April to 130.5 at the end of July at my lowest weight leading into the meet.

So there were actually some veins going on below the belt and I tried to get pictures of them because they looked like aliens but I failed. Instead, we get this scandalous image of my drawn-out, flushed face and abs.
So there were actually some veins going on below the belt and I tried to get pictures of them because they looked like aliens but I failed. Instead, we get this scandalous image of my drawn-out, flushed face and abs.

There was no magic dietary secret here to lose the weight. I didn’t force donuts into my macros and proudly post pictures of them everywhere–I ate foods that I felt best supported how I felt and performed when in training. And no, that isn’t donuts for me. Or cake. Or ice cream. As sacrilege as it is to say this currently in the fitness industry, I am entirely ok with eating “clean foods” 100% of the time for months on end because psychologically I don’t have a problem doing this. Some people do. And I give exactly zero fucks if someone is not mentally wired the way I am–I expect that to be the case, actually–but I refuse to be dishonest about my diet. This is what worked for me. It is very likely not going to work for the next person. It might work for the next person physically, but it might not be sustainable for them mentally. It might work for them mentally, but physically may not be in his or her best interests. One diet system, in other words, is not a panacea for everyone, because no two bodies or minds operate the same way.

So, I accidentally dropped a weight class. And I only decided to actually make that weight class one week before the meet in which I broke two world records in that weight class. It wasn’t a huge, huge deal for me to be a “123 class lifter” on a mental level–it was the right thing for my body at this point in my training career and I did it. I don’t define myself by weight class. I refuse to define myself by a number–especially one that shows up on a scale. I imagine that while I plan on lifting at 132 for the foreseeable future, who knows, I may go back down to 123 at some point. And I may lift as a light 148 a few times. I continue to believe that limiting oneself by weight class has broader repercussions for the scope one one’s athletic career. That’s a topic for another day, though, so instead I’ll leave you with a good idea of the “stages of a weight cut and recomp.” In this picture, Kyle does his best to portray the “bloated dude recomping after making weight” and I adopt the role of “woman who has not yet gotten to weigh in but is entirely entertained by the process of guessing how many months along the food baby is.”

Yes, I’m in my underwear in two pictures in this post. DEAL WITH IT.

Choosing Power over Pretty is a Process

Sometimes I feel like I have to make a choice–pretty or strong. That’s actually a lie–I definitively feel that I have made a choice, and it is to be strong. Your reaction to this might be one of indignation. I know that the enlightened, body-positive way to talk about body image as it relates to strength training is to say that your body has changed and wow, do you feel gorgeous. I have tried to adopt this mindset, but I find a major barrier to it comes in the form of a certain tenet that generates a contradiction I cannot ignore. This tenet is the idea what we should strive to erase the emphasis on physical appearance and the assignation of worth derived from physical aesthetics our culture systemically embraces and promulgates. In other words, there is empowerment in rejecting the stronghold physical appearance has on defining individual worth.

I think many members of the female powerlifting community grapple with this question in a more specified sense–embracing the action over the image, praising the numerical achievement over the subjectivity of physical “improvement.” But you see a wavering on the Instagrams of female powerlifters–and might I say male–a blurring of lines between the powerlifting community and that of the aesthetic competition community. This is in part because there is so much crossover between the two: some individuals compete in both physique competitions as well as powerlifting, and very often training methodologies overlap. Physically, share the same space, as training for both powerlifting and aesthetic competition takes place in a gym. Ultimately, you’ve got powerlifters performing lat spreads for the camera and figure girls trilling about a squat PR in their Facebook statuses.

I make it a point to emphasize action and activity over posing pictures on my instagram. Sorry, muscle fetishists, my instagram is not really for you.
I make it a point to emphasize action and activity over posing pictures on my instagram. Sorry, muscle fetishists, my instagram is not really for you.

But at the end of the day, especially at higher levels of competition–although not always, a la the feats of Susan Salazar–the two camps are different. And if you are a woman, the ability to drop and then keep your body fat to an appreciably low and train for maximal strength becomes contradictory. I would further argue that if you are in the beginning of your powerlifting career–say, five years or less competing–it’s not a particularly good idea to strive to keep your weight low for a variety of reasons.

Let’s turn back to my own experience. I am not nor would I ever make a blanket assertion that heavier women are less attractive. But at this point in my career as well as my personal history as well as my relationship with my body, I would be lying to you if I said that I feel I am more attractive at my current weight than when I was 110 or 115 pounds. For context, I’m currently, as of this morning, 135.0 pounds, a weight that is in line with my goal to actually gain a bit and be in a calorie surplus leading up to my upcoming meet. Now, am I exponentially stronger at my current bodyweight than I was 20 pounds ago? Yes. Without question, and even when taking relative strength into account, which you do if you are at all versed in what it means to compete in powerlifting. For my weight, I am much stronger than I ever have been at any bodyweight. It’s fantastic. It is absolutely fucking fantastic. I believe powerlifting is possibly the only thing in my life I have ever been appreciably good at or accomplished anything significant. Deadlifting 420 pounds as a 135-pound girl is the shit. It feels near-spiritual. And I choose to manage my body with powerlifting being the priority because I will support and preserve anything that has made me feel like that above all else.

Perhaps you’re reading this and thinking “you don’t have to make a choice! You can be beautiful and lift! Heck, this is the message we WANT to get out there to women!” And I’ll tell you that I’m thinking “do we?” because given that I am aware that I don’t feel my most attractive these days, and it is in part because of decisions I’ve made prioritizing my lifting, my problem becomes grappling with this and attempting to reach some sort of resolution with it I feel good about. And what consistently gets me closer to this resolution is championing the idea that we must reject valuing ourselves and others by appearances.

You might think you have this down–like, oh my god, it’s so OBVIOUS and we are told not to judge and value appearances from when we are, like, toddlers on you guys–but it is when you truly begin to reject the death grip aesthetic obsession has on our culture that you realize how deeply embedded it is within yourself as well as others. I could be wrong, but I suspect this process takes years and is why you hear more women well into their thirties and beyond expressing more satisfaction with themselves than you do those who are younger. That is if they truly ever start to tackle this process themselves.

So from day to day I’m fairly ok with my body if I have to consider it from an aesthetic standpoint. LIke, it’s alright, I have really huge arms and shoulders, and I’m kind of weirdly lanky in relation to that mass. To be honest, this sort of self-appraisal is something I try to avoid doing when possible, and it usually is possible until I remember I have to put on a freaking wedding dress in under two months. After going through the process of planning a wedding, I don’t think I ever realized how extreme the pressure and focus is on how one looks on that day.The fact that months after blogging about it and then disappearing from my blog for a while, I’m blogging about it again should be a good indicator that I haven’t really arrived at peaceful terms with the idea of having to march around in front of people wearing a very nice dress that exposes a lot of my physique. It feels like signing up to do a modeling job would probably feel–an idea so preposterous for me that it’s literally laughable. But this wedding is HAPPENING and people expect me to look nice that day because all brides are supposed to look absolutely stunning, right? And I’m just over here like “I just feel so deeply fucking uncomfortable with this, can I have the rest of the wedding without the dress part?”

Sure, you can get a picture of me doing this, but not posing in a dress. Let's skip the photos part.
Sure, you can get a picture of me doing this, but not posing in a dress. Let’s skip the photos part.

The reason I’m bringing the wedding dress up here is because it is causing this huge hiccup in my quest to reject and devalue physical aesthetics, almost at a philosophical level. Somehow, I’m betraying my own pursuit of a more realistic and self-honoring relationship with my body by playing into the “pretty dress-up bride” schtick. And get this–I’ve recently decided to attempt to put ON a few pounds leading up to my meet, which is a month before my wedding. Powerlifting, for me, trumps the aesthetics every time, because when a woman says she’s looking to put ON weight for her wedding, that’s nearly news-worthy. So there you go. I’m choosing powerlifting over pretty. I’m prioritizing performance over image. And I would–and will–do it again. Except for the wedding planning part. Absolutely not again.

Weight Class Obsession: Just Say No

Wandering around naked in the University of Iowa’s women’s locker room at its Campus Recreation and Wellness Center is taboo. I’ve written about this before, and thankfully, I no longer have pit my need to know with extreme accuracy how much I weigh against how much I don’t want people thinking I’m neurotic as I weigh myself on the CRWC’s $1000 scale without a shred of clothing on my body. The need to know always won out against the cringing self-awareness that accompanied my furtive dashes to that scale, and this speaks to how seriously I took what weight class I competed in at the very beginning of my powerlifting career.

You know you have a weight class obsession problem when you own two scales. We're down to one now. In our defense, both of these were extremely unreliable so we just used them as faulty controls against one another.
You know you have a weight class obsession problem when you own two scales. We’re down to one now. In our defense, both of these were extremely unreliable so we just used them as faulty controls against one another.

A few things I want to make clear here: powerlifting is a weight-class-based sport. We’re pretty obsessed with how much we weigh not because of how we look (well, supposedly, anyway) but because it’s how we stack up against one another and how our strength is judged—powerlifting is about relative strength, after all. National rankings are arranged by sex and weight class. There is no option to “opt out” of weight class even for beginners who really don’t care or expect to do well in their first competitions. If you compete in powerlifting, you are going to step on the scale.

Over and over again, if you listen to some of the best voices in the sport, the idea of focusing on weight class is de-emphasized. Concentrate on building a solid hypertrophy and strength base, whatever you need to do to accomplish that, however much you ultimately end up weighing, they’ll say. I remember attending a seminar in which Brandon Lily sat on a panel of lifters who included, among many others, Caitlin Trout and Ed Coan. Lily strongly advocated not limiting your weight by weight class unless you were literally capable of breaking a world record in a given weight class. At the time I attended that seminar, I thought his ideas were somewhat extreme. I still do, a bit, and I also don’t presume to know what is best/would make the entire lifting population happy, as that is a very individualized question. But I do know that it’s interesting that while many seasoned, successful competitors in the sport advocate giving yourself literal room to grow, it is often the mediocre or downright unsuccessful lifters who spend inordinate amounts of time preoccupied with weight class.

I get to wear one of THESE again.
Believe it or not, I don’t even think this is from my 105 meet. I think it’s from when I competed at 114 the first time. Yes, this is scrawny at its finest.

I am guilty of this preoccupation myself, and I don’t claim to be as enlightened, or, well, good, as the sport’s veterans can claim. Very early in my career, I first competed at 114. I remember being so terrified of coming in over the 114 pound weight class even when each morning I was waking up pounds below that weight that the day I was to weigh in for my second meet I ended up weighing in at 109 pounds—down three pounds from the then-normal  112 pounds or so. Terrified, I had barely eaten or had anything to drink that entire day. The way I treated that weigh-in was grossly overreactive and spoke to how much I felt like weight class was crucial to what I did at the meet.

I don’t even remember the total I did that day. I do know, having done this a little longer now, and having put on a lot of weight and competed several more times in a variety of weight classes, that the anxiety and pressure I felt that early to make sure I was at a certain weight class was completely ludicrous. The amount of people in this sport who concern themselves with weight class is stunning—it’s almost as if a constant discussion of/focus on weight will relieve everyone from having to take the more complicated, harder look at their powerlifting career as a whole. Ed Coan competed in weight class after weight class, unfettered by a singular obsession with his weight as he grew into his talent and progressed upward over time from class to class. I have deep respect for people who are willing to do this. Because it’s hard, and it’s humbling (okay, yeah, unless you’re Coan, because whatever he did at any of his weight classes was fantastic), and you have to pay your dues and respect the fact there are people competing at whatever weight class you’re competing in who have been doing this sport longer and have very likely gone about it “the hard way” by progressively moving up weight classes.

This is something I’m dealing with now. Early on in my career, I thought I might just keep my weight way down for the 105 class and just slowly grind away at being one of the best in that class. I say slowly because for someone who’s a little over 5’2”, staying in range of 105 means that the muscle mass I can carry is fairly low. In other words, if I wanted to do 105, I’d pretty much have to look like I don’t even lift. Ultimately, I would be a more fragile lifter, with a very tiny margin for error and a maximal strength cap that would be far lower than if I allowed myself to gain more lean mass. I chose to move up weight classes. My allegiance to one class dissolved rather quickly. To date, I have competed at 105, 114, 132, and 148. Yes, I skipped 123. No, I don’t plan on going back for it. I also have a very fluid picture of what weight class I will choose over the coming years. I am entirely open to the idea of competing as a light 148 and growing into that class. I will probably spend some time competing at 132 if my weight is very reasonably in range of it—no more than 4 pounds above it for an easy water cut. But I am not going to get married to a weight class, and I’m not going to flip out/obsess over it when I’m a beginning-intermediate level powerlifter.

If you’re a beginning powerlifter—under a year and a half of training for the sport, just dabbling, barely having competed or not having competed at all—and you find yourself agonizing over what weight you’re going for your first or second meet, you’ve got to get away from whatever group of people you’re surrounding yourself with that talk about weight class like it’s the point of the sport or like it’s what defines you as a lifter. Because it doesn’t. If you can comfortably make a weight class and compete successfully at it, ok. If you are jeopardizing how you feel on meet day by making a massive cut to a weight class when your numbers are terrible in relation to the top lifters at that weight class, something’s wrong there. I watch people do this on a regular basis and for a while fell into the fear-mongering trap that is Weight Class Obsession. This trap became more apparent when I contemplated doing a meet at—gasp—whatever I happened to weigh that day. Wouldn’t this mean I was somehow failing at the sport? Wouldn’t it mean I was lazy? Didn’t care? Wasn’t as competitive? Wasn’t a “real” powerlifter? Wasn’t as seasoned a competitor? Newsflash—you can’t force a status of “seasoned competitor” by making weight. You’re a seasoned competitor when you have lifted in a lot of meets. You’re a stupid competitor when you think obsessing over weight class will do anything but distract you from having to face how much this sport is a long-term investment. If you’re in powerlifting, if you’re not thinking in terms of decades, you’re foolish. The majority of the top lifters in this sport have been doing it for a decade or more, and that’s no accident.

Let's do this.
More of this, less obsessing over which weight class you’re going to pull off a mediocre performance in on meet day.

To mix metaphors, I’m going to jump on the broken record bandwagon here: there are no shortcuts. Even the shortcuts don’t shortcut as much as you’d like them to. The more your pride talks instead of your logic, the longer you’re going to spend preoccupied with things that will ultimately only hinder your progress as a lifter. So to all the beginning lifters out there, here’s my plea: get off the damned university gym scale. Rise above the obsession, and allow yourself time to be better than that. I am amazed I even have to say this, but here it is in caps: THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH WEIGHING WHATEVER YOU WEIGH WHEN YOU COMPETE IN A MEET. Get. Off. The. Scale. Unless you just like being naked in front of people you have class with in a few hours, of course.