Shamed and consistently underestimated: what it's like to hit the gym with a bigger body

"Why don't we start on the elliptical trainer?"

It was 2012 and my first session with a personal trainer.

"Okay, sure," I thought. "Warm up would be great…"

Then he continued:

"…since the weights will be too hard for you."

"Wait what?" I asked myself, "Too heavy? Why would you say something like that?"

He continued: "After all, we have to work our stomachs off!"

I looked down, embarrassed. My stomach. Like the rest of me, it was big.

But that was not the reason why I signed up for the training.

My fingernails bit into my palms.

Maybe, I thought, if I explain things to him, he'll understand my background and goals. However, my desire to please kept me from speaking.

Instead, I got on the elliptical trainer.

"See you next practice," he chirped when practice was over.

"Sure," I said.

But there would never be another session – at least not with him.

Kelly Fucheck has been training CrossFit for over five years, showing how anyone can move their body and be powerful regardless of their size. Connect with her at A Size Strong.

A few months after that personal training session, I entered a CrossFit box.

When I saw the barbells – and the people who used them – I lit up.

I knew right away that this was the type of strength training for me.

When the instructor told us to line up and showed the class how to deadlift, I loaded my barbell and looked expectantly at those 125 pounds of iron.

Then the trainer came up to me and removed a plate, then another.

Confused, I asked, "Is something wrong?"

"I'm not sure you're strong enough for that yet," he said.

Heat rose to my face.

I was more than strong enough. Possibly stronger than the shorter people in the class.

He didn't know because he hadn't asked.

When he saw my body, he assumed there was no history or personal bests.

He looked at me and saw a beginner, both in his class and in fitness in general. Again I said nothing. At that time in my life I had no confidence.

I just wanted to belong. I did as I was told.

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A lot of people get a lot wrong with taller people like me.

They tend to associate a large body with weakness.

They also mistakenly think that we have never tried to change our shape or size, which is rarely the case.

Not long ago, I sat down on an exam table for a wellness check.

Before asking about my medical history, the new doctor said, "How do you feel about trying to lose weight? If you lose 10 percent of your body weight, you could…"

My stomach turned with anger, shame and disbelief.

I felt exposed in the thin paper dress. I stared at him, blinking faster, trying to process my intention of telling him I'd already lost 50 pounds. That was already more than 10 percent of my body weight.

Again, this health professional had not asked about my history or current habits. He just accepted.

My background might surprise you.

At 8 years old I was, as people say, a big girl – but that wasn't what my dad saw when he looked at me.

He saw my potential, my strength and my beauty.

Dad had huge brown eyes that welcomed people, a roaring laugh that could bring a smile to the face of even the grumpiest of people, and an infectious go-getter attitude.

As he often said, "There's no reason you can't. Can't, never could."

Several times a week he invited me to come with him to the fire station where he worked. In the TV room there was a weight bench, a weight set and a Smith machine. As the smell of spaghetti, chili and cornbread wafted in from the nearby kitchen, Dad turned up the music and asked, "Are you ready?"

In each of these sessions, he encouraged me to do things that I initially thought were impossible.

At least not for a girl.

Especially not a big girl like me.

After each session I felt strong, capable and proud.

Inexplicably, I didn't comply.

My parents are divorced. Dad moved out. I grew up to be a confident teenager and young adult who smoked.

In my 20s, the scale showed 284 pounds and my doctor described me as "morbidly obese."

I swore I would never weigh myself again.

Then, in my thirties, I suffered a stroke and vowed to get well.

My wellness journey began with a two-minute walk on the treadmill.

It included daily struggles with self-doubt and depression.

There were slow, clumsy improvements with diet and the treadmill—and finally a love affair with the barbell.

When I met this trainer in 2012, I had lost 30 pounds and was running half marathons. By the time I met the second trainer at the CrossFit box, I had lost 50 pounds — and was able to deadlift 125 pounds with ease.

And now?

I can do 250 deadlifts and 130+ power cleans.

I am also a certified health coach and CrossFit trainer.

I'm not a wimp. Not physically – and not mentally.

Kelly Fucheck presses 125 pounds overhead during a barbell clinic.

Losing weight and keeping it off is one of the hardest things I've ever done.

And it's right up there when you go to the gym.

No matter how strong I get, people constantly underestimate me just because of my looks.

Some people might be wondering: What is stopping me from coming back?

I go to the gym partly because I don't want to have another stroke. I don't want to leave my children motherless. I also don't want to weigh 280 pounds again.

However, on my toughest days, it's my dad who gets me through the doors.

In 2014, he was hospitalized with pancreatitis. He died three weeks later at the age of 57.

I still mourn his loss. Every single weight unit helps keep a part of him with me.

"I'm going to do this and I don't care what other people say," I tell myself when self-doubt tries to stop me.

"Can't, never could. Can't, never could. tipping. Never. could. I go through this door.”

Sometimes I wish I could go back in time – I would be louder, advocate, explain.

Instead of swallowing my words and doing as I was told, I would explain to these health professionals that I am more than just my size.

"Hey, I've lifted weights before," I picture myself saying, "I'd like to show you what I can do."

I would suggest that the doctor take a full medical history before proceeding directly to advice.

I wouldn't mind telling dozens of people, "I know you're staring at me," either.

And that those "good for you honey" comments can really hurt.

But most of all, I want everyone with a body like mine to know this:

Keep your purpose in your pocket.

When you're scared, intimidated, or feeling unworthy—and you will be—remember why you're doing it. Keep it close and know you can do anything.

Your why will keep you going. And I'll be right there with you.

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