Powerlifting Competition

One of the newest things I’ve added to my life is the concept of competing in a sport that I’ve been trying out and loving for 3 years. There’s an entire background to this situation and the years I’ve spent working on becoming the picture of who I want to be. That is for another time or the bits and pieces I’ve laid strewn across this platform.

This time, I would like to discuss the impact that competing left on my soul. This is perhaps a documentary on the experience of that day, as I feel someone may benefit from reading and knowing this before they compete. Knowing your numbers is great, having all your gear is best, but nothing prepared me for the aftermath of war.

This is that story.

A short autobiography may put this in perspective for your own experience. I competed in team sports for a short while, but always focused on experiences that put your time and effort against others’ capabilities. From piano to karate to colorguard, I competed on and off for years in sports where my dreams were the joy of the sport, not the medal. I did work hard, but only up to the point where it was still a game and no one depended on my skills as part of a team.

Flash forward to my new love for weightlifting and haphazard dreams of body building. I picked the sport because my kickboxing gym had a trainer who squatted and I truly enjoyed the thought of lifting that weight off my body. The girls who did so were beautiful, strong, and sexy because of their confidence. While kickboxing made me feel strong, I didn’t feel sexy. Truth be told, I was still drinking like sailor and until that crutch was removed I was forever a slave to escapism.

Now, forward almost 3 years. My body has changed and I am stronger, but without someone watching my every move, I have not completely changed my eating habits and I have fallen off one too many bandwagons with school stress. I’ve celebrated life and feel unhappy in my strong body once again. I want out. I want control.

But I still don’t care enough for bodybuilding. Someone judging my physique seems so crude, like I am not a person if I don’t have abs. With my need to understand, I signed up and learned yoga theory. Suddenly, my philosophy of life needed to include the concept of worth for living. Worth for breathing. Worth for existence.

So I turned to bodybuilding. While I needed to “make weight,” there were no defined limits of how I should look, only how I should perform. And actually, performance was much better with more carbs and more sleep and more flexibility and less stress. So that became the game plan. And that aligned with my lifeview and goals and suddenly everything felt right.

For six months I thought of one day, eight hours. For three months I dieted and got nowhere but a little stronger. For three months I reverse dieted, got very focused, and started to learn the technique of the sport. For about a week, I lost control and in fear, I stress ate whatever I wanted. I bloated up and realized that I continue to let stress own me.

For another week, I cried. I worried. I stressed. I went back to the original macros I was on. I dropped weight but was still scared to weigh in after work in the afternoon with meals and water. I dehydrated and ate less than 500 calories that day. I didn’t sleep that week, tossing and turning with every little reminder that I was competing another reminder that I had failed.

That Friday I ran to the gym and everyone was so nice. They let me change into my shorts and closed the door for weigh ins so I could strip if need be. I weighed 145.5, 2.5 pounds less than the limit.

It was over. Now I just needed to lift. I went home and ate, put on my bathing suit, and went to the pool. I tried to relax. I tried to not care.

There’s something about not caring. I am either all in or out, and not caring is difficult for me to switch back and forth.

I woke up excited. I did my make up and danced around. I made sure everything was in order. I even set myself up for a high-carb reefed day to make sure I had adequate energy for my lifts all day. I was so ready. I wasn’t going to fail macros again.

I went and got scared again. My anti-social behaviors came out and I waited until the last minute to walk in and find my place. I found some girls and started talking. I found my friend and talked some more. They told me the rules and I got nervous. We ran in like banshees and had 10 minutes to warm up and get our heights on the mono.

I heard my name, walked out, and waved to my bestie Katelyn. I was shaking like a sinner in church. I didn’t know where I was and it almost felt like I was going to black out. I stepped into the mono and it took a second for them to move it out of the way. I got to the bottom and lost it.

I don’t know what happened, no matter how many times I replay it in my head, I don’t know what happened. I saw the judge’s hand stay up and I focused, but not enough. Maybe I didn’t breath. Maybe I saw someone or looked to Katelyn too much.

Then my trainer came and got me hyped, worked me out, and my body felt warm. He stood behind me and was in my ear, in my head. It went up like butter. Welcome to our meet.

My third squat attempt was 203 and honestly, that was probably a lot for not having a spotter physically behind me. I should be proud and happy, I was angry and hurt.

Chest press is next. I was scared. I’m always scared of chest and my trainer made me drop the weight before we started. That dropped my confidence maybe. But it was the right choice, I failed the second and third attempt, barely able to make it off my chest. To be honest here, I think it was too much of a jump. I had only done 140 in the gym after a very long work out and getting hyped watching the boys do more than me. I’m super competitive with the guys I work out with. No matter how much I squat or deadlift or eat better or don’t drink, they always seem to chest press more and it makes me angry.

I was also really nervous. This is the only lift where you have to wait to press up until the judge says to. I’m deaf in one ear and had a horrible headache from the music and speaker, I was so afraid to miss the call and lose the lift. I was scared of that for months. I wasn’t wrong that I didn’t get the chest press, but it wasn’t for that reason.

Anger is the best fuel in this case. But if I don’t focus it well, it makes it worse than angst.

Then it was deadlift, I stayed down for a long time, waiting for the judge to put his hand down to lift. Which was ignorance. For the deadlift, the only command is down. That makes it ridiculously easy. Deadlift is my favorite, and even more so now. I hit one, the next, and went up to 231 for my final lift of the meet.

I hit it. I got into a zone I never knew before. I was elated, I didn’t even hear the music. I became someone else, the person I wanted to be.

I was a competitive powerlifter.

And then the meet was over. Real life sunk in. Every trouble came back, new troubles surfaced. School wasn’t something to be ignored any more. I had to go back to work the next day. I still had a few hours before it was acceptable to sleep. My body hurt and I was so tired.

And it was over. I had been competitive, but I didn’t feel like a competitor any more. I was a powerlifter, but now I was just me.

Just me. I have to reframe and focus, just me is enough and just me is awesome and just me is a compassionate nurse who loves caring for others.

While I love powerlifting, I am not competitor year-round. I would rather be nursing famous. That’s why I’m going for my doctorate and becoming passionate about doing whatever it takes for others to realize that this mental and physical control is worth this existential torture.

I did this, and I will do this again, but it only helps me help others learn that controlling their emotions is the single best skill I’ve learned this entire time. Channel your energy and your strengths to loving others. It’s the only thing we take to the grave.