The Irony of Being “Fitness Itself”
It’s a strange thing when the world looks at you and calls you the very definition of fitness. They see the muscles, the discipline, the trophies, the years on stage, and they assume you’ve cracked the code. They assume you’ve mastered the body and the mind, that you’ve conquered the very battles they’re still fighting.
In many ways, I get it. As a professional, I’ve trained hard, I’ve stood on the biggest stages of bodybuilding, I’ve carried the title of IFBB Pro Olympian. For years, I’ve been the coach, the mentor, the voice telling others that yes, change is possible and that yes, discipline pays off.
Here’s the irony—the truth I don’t always admit out loud. What I see in the mirror isn’t always what the rest of the world sees. What my mind tells me about my body often doesn’t match what’s staring back at me in photos or reflections. I’ve lived in that tension, the push-and-pull between being “fitness itself” in the eyes of others and feeling anything but in my own.
No one prepares you for that paradox. You can be the professional, the inspiration, the one who walks the walk—and still wrestle with the crushing weight of self-doubt. You can be the athlete people look up to, and still wake up wondering if you’re enough.
Maybe that’s why I feel called to tell this story. Because if even someone like me—a woman who has dedicated decades of her life to fitness—can wrestle with that silent war inside, then maybe you’ll see that your own battles don’t make you weak. They just make you human.
From Body Dysmorphia to the Stage
There was a time when I hated the body I lived in. I don’t use that word lightly—hate. It was a war, and my reflection was the enemy. I picked apart every flaw, every curve, every ounce of softness that I thought didn’t belong.
During my years in dance, modeling, and the performing arts, my body was my currency. It was the thing everyone judged, the thing that decided if I was cast or cut, praised or rejected. The truth is, I never felt like I measured up. I fell into disordered eating and body dysmorphia. Into a pit of shame where no accomplishment could silence the voice that whispered, you’re not enough.
How Weight Training Saved Me
Ironically, it was weight training—the very thing people now associate me with—that saved me. The barbell became my therapist. The squat rack became my sanctuary. Learning how the body works, discovering the miracle of this God-given organism, turned the battlefield into something sacred.
Little by little, I climbed out of that pit. I built muscle, strength, and confidence. Eventually, I built a career that took me to the top of the fitness world—the Olympia stage. The girl who once despised her reflection became the woman others called “fitness goals.”
Scars That Don’t Disappear
Here’s the part no one tells you: standing on stage with a pro card in hand doesn’t erase the wounds. Competing didn’t mean I’d never struggle again. The muscles didn’t heal the heart. I carried those scars with me, even into the spotlight.
That’s why I say this with all the conviction in me: fitness didn’t just transform my body. It saved my life. But it also taught me that the journey isn’t about perfection—it’s about survival, about healing, about finding a way to love the very body God entrusted to you.
The Silent Battle: Lockdowns, Shame, and Losing Myself
You would think that once you’ve reached the pinnacle of fitness—becoming an IFBB Pro, stepping on the Olympia stage—you’d be immune to backsliding. It seems like once you’ve “made it,” the discipline should live in your bones. That was my assumption too. But reality has a way of humbling us.
When the world shut down, so did I. Gyms closed. Stages went dark. Life shrank down to four walls, and within those walls my motivation crumbled. Days blurred into weeks. Weeks turned into months. Even when the world began to reopen, something inside me stayed locked away. I couldn’t find the fire to get up and move.
The Weight of Shame
That’s the part no one likes to admit—especially when your entire career is built on health, performance, and discipline. But I’ll admit it: I fell. Hard. I carried shame with every pound I gained, with every moment I felt like I was betraying the very identity I had built as a trainer and competitor.
Shame doesn’t whisper, it screams. It tells you you’re a fraud, you’re finished. It tells you that all the years of discipline were wasted because you couldn’t keep it together when it mattered most.
And when the world sees you as a professional, when clients look to you as their guide, the shame cuts even deeper. People notice. They comment. They’re not kind. Yet the cruelest critic is the one in the mirror.
Admitting I’m Human
I know I’m not alone in this. Maybe you’ve had your own fall-off—the cycle of progress and relapse, the frustration of losing ground you fought so hard to gain. It’s exhausting. It’s humiliating. Sometimes you reach that breaking point where you think, forget it. I’m done. I can’t start over again.
I was there. The “Pro” who couldn’t face her own reflection. The coach who didn’t want to step on a treadmill. The Olympian who was embarrassed to walk into a gym. That’s how far I had fallen.
Here’s the truth I’ve learned in that pit: being a coach doesn’t make you invincible. Being a pro doesn’t make you immune. At the end of the day, I’m human—just like you. The silent battles we fight in isolation often become the very ground where resilience is born.
The Universal Shame of Falling Off the Wagon
When Falling Feels Like Failing
It’s one thing to stumble in private, but it is something else entirely when the world is watching. As a coach and competitor, I felt that my identity was tied to always being strong, always being disciplined, and always being the example. However, when I gained weight, when I skipped workouts, and when I stopped showing up as the version of myself people expected, I carried a deep shame. It wasn’t just embarrassment—it was the suffocating sense that I had failed not only myself but also everyone who looked up to me.
Shame is powerful because it doesn’t just remind you of what you’ve done, it convinces you of who you are. It whispers that you are lazy, undisciplined, and unworthy. And yet, the truth is much different. Falling off the wagon is part of being human. In fact, it is often in those moments of weakness that we are able to discover the strength we never knew we had.
You Are Not Alone in This Cycle
Maybe you’ve felt this too. Perhaps you’ve started a new plan, only to stop. You’ve lost weight, only to gain it back. You’ve promised yourself a fresh start, only to fall again. These cycles are frustrating, and they can make you want to give up completely. Nevertheless, I want you to understand that this cycle doesn’t define you. It is not the end of your story. Falling is not failure. Staying down is.
Therefore, when I admit my struggles, I am not doing it for sympathy. I am doing it so you know you are not alone. Every stumble can be an invitation to rise again. Every cycle is another opportunity to break free. The shame may feel heavy, but the truth is lighter than you realize—you are never beyond redemption.
Why I Don’t Train for the Stage Anymore
A New Definition of Success
When I first entered the bodybuilding world, the stage was everything. Competing meant validation. Winning meant respect. And stepping on that Olympia stage was the ultimate dream realized. For years, I equated my worth with the way my body looked under the stage lights. However, over time, that definition of success became too small. I realized that trophies fade, applause dies down, and eventually, you are left asking yourself, “What now?”
Today, my success looks very different. It isn’t about standing on a stage in competition shape. Instead, it’s about whether I can wake up each morning strong enough to live fully, healthy enough to serve others, and grounded enough in my faith to glorify God through my body. That shift changed everything. Competing was a chapter, but it is not the full book.
Leaving the Stage, Finding Myself
Walking away from competition was not easy. For years, I clung to the identity of being “the competitor.” I feared that without that title, people would forget me. But stepping back showed me something greater. Life isn’t lived under stage lights—it’s lived in everyday choices. It’s lived in the meals you prepare, the workouts you push through, the moments of honesty you share with others, and the way you honor your body as the temple of the Holy Spirit.
Therefore, I don’t train for the stage anymore. I train for life, for my future self, the woman I will be in ten, twenty, or thirty years. I train so I can still move freely, still live without preventable diseases, and still inspire those who come after me. The stage was temporary. But this purpose is eternal.
The Four Pillars of Fitness
Beyond the Physical
Most people think of fitness as only physical: the workouts, the diet, the visible results. But the truth is, fitness is much deeper. Over the years, I’ve come to understand that true fitness is built on four pillars: physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual. If one of these pillars is weak, the whole foundation is unstable. Consequently, you cannot expect to thrive if you are only strong in the gym but weak in your mind or spirit.
Theology of Fitness
This understanding is what gave birth to what I call “Theology of Fitness.” Fitness is not simply about sculpting muscles or hitting a number on the scale. It’s about respecting the sacredness of your body, mind, and soul. When you see your body as a temple, when you recognize the gift of health and movement as something entrusted to you, your perspective shifts. Discipline becomes more than vanity—it becomes worship. Strength becomes more than pride—it becomes service. And transformation becomes more than skin-deep—it becomes eternal.
The Integration of All Four
When you nurture all four pillars, everything changes. Your physical training fuels your mental resilience. Your emotional fitness helps you recover from setbacks with grace. And your spiritual fitness reminds you why you began in the first place. Together, they make you unshakable. That’s the kind of fitness I want to live, and that’s the kind of fitness I want to invite you into as well.
Admitting You’re Not Okay (and Why That’s Brave)
The Courage to Tell the Truth
In a culture obsessed with appearances, it feels terrifying to admit, “I’m not okay.” We are taught to put on a brave face, to pretend we have it all together, and to hide our struggles. Yet the bravest thing you can do is speak the truth. Saying you’re not okay is not weakness—it is courage. It is the first step to freedom. Because the truth sets you free, even when it hurts to say it out loud.
Dropping the Mask
For years, I wore the mask of strength. I was the pro, the coach, the competitor, the one who never broke. But behind the mask, I was struggling. Admitting that changed everything. The moment I stopped pretending was the moment I began to heal. And healing doesn’t begin with perfection. It begins with honesty.
Your Own Honesty
Maybe you are in that same place. Perhaps you’ve been telling the world you’re fine while crumbling inside. Let me assure you: admitting you’re not okay won’t make people lose respect for you. It will make them see your humanity. It will also open the door for grace, support, and transformation. Don’t fear the truth. Fear staying stuck in denial. Honesty is the doorway to change.
Call to Hope and Action
I’ve shared my story with you not to gain sympathy but to remind you that none of us are alone in this. Falling off doesn’t mean you’re finished. In fact, it may be the very place where your comeback begins. If I can rise after falling, if I can rebuild after breaking, so can you. This isn’t the end of your journey—it’s the start of something new.
Every day is another chance to begin again. No matter how far you’ve fallen, no matter how many times you’ve quit, you can start today.
Start small. Allow yourself to start broken and scared.
But start.
Because starting is the only way to rise. Therefore, I invite you to see your own struggle not as defeat but as an opportunity to grow stronger, to learn, and to step into the future you’ve always wanted.
A Final Word
So let me leave you with this: your body is not broken, and neither are you. You are capable of far more than you believe. The shame of the past does not dictate the story of your future. With faith, integrity, and perseverance, you can rebuild your body, your mind, and your spirit. And when you do, you won’t just look different—you’ll live different. That’s the power of grace. That’s the promise of resilience. And that’s the invitation I’m offering you: let’s rise together.
