In the early hours of a scorching August day, I started my Saturday routine. First, a hot mug of coffee with cream and a bowl of tender peaches that my partner prepared. Then, I walked three blocks to the high-intensity interval training gym where I can be found most days. Soon, the other regulars and I were in the thick of it: pushing the weighted sled, cycling on the air bike, squatting the hex bar.
An hour later, I wrote in the margins of my planner, “workout no. 124 of the year,” before heading to my kitchen to scramble eggs and fry bacon.
I find sanity in these two safe spaces: exercise and cooking. When I move my body, it’s with a fervor and fluidity that I learned as a student athlete. However, my teenage years in the gym also taught me several lessons I’ve worked hard to unlearn since. I started powerlifting in high school and fell into a cycle of restrictive eating and binging before performing. Back then, it helped me earn medals. As an adult, I’ve had to course correct that pattern in order to reach a place of true health.
A dozen years later, I think I’m almost there.
How I Fell For Powerlifting
Throughout my childhood, I was decidedly not the jock of the family. Instead, that title belonged to my younger sister, whose soccer prowess meant my weekends were largely spent in folding chairs at tournaments where I’d daydream the hours away.
I tried to match her skills on the field and even branched out to play basketball for two years. But when I dribbled the ball off my foot during a game, it was clear: hand-eye coordination wasn’t my strong suit.
However, as a preteen, I began to realize that, when it came to sports that relied solely on my body rather than ball games, I performed (dare I say) well. At 12 years old, I practiced back handsprings and standing back tucks at tumbling lessons; in 7th grade, I became a cheerleader. Later, I taught swim lessons and even coached a local team.
But powerlifting became my one true love. In high school, I’d spent years admiring the assured girls on our school’s team who walked the halls in their powerlifting sweatsuits. Finally, my senior year, I decided to try it myself, ignoring protests from men that I’d look muscular and, thereby, masculine – a cultural no-no for Southern girls. I joined a diverse bunch of young women who weren’t afraid to lift heavy, inhale chalk dust, and freeze in ice baths. We wore the bruises on our shoulders and thighs from bitingly tight squat suits with pride.
Our coaches’ strategy for competitions was to slot me into a weight class that was nearly 10 pounds under my actual weight at the time, so I’d surpass contenders who likely couldn’t bench press, squat, and deadlift as much as me. However, that meant, at the start of the season, I had to quickly drop pounds that a growing 17 year old shouldn’t be losing.
At the time, I saw no issue with the instruction, which isn’t uncommon among weight class-based sports like powerlifting and wrestling. I was finally an athlete. I’d do whatever it took to win, even if it meant disordered eating.
I limited myself to a chicken breast and an apple every day at lunch, trying to ignore the growls of my stomach. (I wasn’t always successful; once, my hunger was so obvious that a friend offered me her sandwich.) I also embraced another known powerlifting method: spitting into an empty water bottle to lose water weight. On the way to meets, I cranked the heat in the car and sprinted around gas stations during pit stops, trying to break a sweat.
Before competitions, we’d each stand on the scale in front of an official, who confirmed our weights and gave us the green light to move forward. I remember those weary moments – ones in which I prayed for a quick thumbs up that indicated I’d “made weight,” after which I’d beeline to the nearest restaurant to devour a meal. My body was begging for nutrients.
However, at first, it seemed to pay off. Even as a rookie, I thrived in the sport. At one meet, I set a record in the bench press category, and I placed fourth at regionals.
Our team qualified for Louisiana’s state powerlifting meet, and we had a winning streak. My peers pulled me aside to ask if I’d consider skipping our prom, which fell on the same day as the competition. It was an easy decision. I’d experienced prom before but, up until that point, I’d never felt needed by a team.
I still don’t regret my choice. At one point, I was vying for second place but, after a botched deadlift, I walked away as number four in my weight class. Our team placed second overall, losing by just one point. I graduated soon after.
In college, the pendulum swung from one side to the other. I spent most of my afternoons seated in classrooms and nights at parties, with little time for the gym – a busy but sedentary schedule.
It wasn’t until I was in graduate school that the urges to run and lift and move really prodded me again. But soon after I secured my first job in a Washington, D.C., newsroom, circumstances intervened: The COVID-19 pandemic forced me indoors, and I had to forgo the gym in favor of at-home floor workout routines.
My fitness comeback also meant the resurfacing of old behaviors. I subconsciously clung to the notion that a cup of coffee provided me with enough energy to last until the clock struck 1 p.m. Unintentionally fasting through the morning, I gorged at dinnertime.
When COVID restrictions eased, I ran for miles outside. In September 2021, I finished a 5k race in 24 minutes, a feat I hadn’t accomplished since high school cross country. I masked up for Orangetheory Fitness classes, and I worked the check-in desk of a local yoga studio in exchange for a free membership.
A move across the country in the spring of 2022 brought me to Denver, a city with an athletic reputation. Once I found a home gym, I initially stuck to a rigorous HIIT routine, forgoing the majority of the recommended rest days. My behavior didn’t look the same as it did in high school, but the ghosts of the lessons I’d learned back then were there: namely, pushing your body very hard comes first, with eating treated as an afterthought.
I had to see my behavior through the eyes of a loved one in order to gradually embrace softness.
Once I began dating my boyfriend – a man who steadfastly believes in breakfast, lunch, dinner, and dessert – he pointed out the need for proper meal times. The observation came as a shock. Was I really not feeding myself correctly?
After I’d seen it, I couldn’t unsee it. I knew I wanted to move toward embracing nourishment, health and self-love in my life. The task felt daunting at first, and it took trial and error to prioritize this new objective. But over time, I found a lot to love about treating my body with more kindness and less punishment: spontaneous trips for ice cream, new cookbooks to ogle over, and, most importantly, a shrinking sense of guilt. I could build muscle and take long walks, an activity that previously felt like it didn’t “count.” I could skip the weights to visit a new barre studio, try Pilates, or (gasp) just watch movies at home. Instead of putting food second, I could make it a priority. I could use my kitchen to connect with my cultures, welcoming the culinary traditions of my Southern and Hawaiian ancestors into my home.
Instead of extremes, I could find balance. And in balance, I found joy.
Megan Ulu-Lani Boyanton is an award-winning reporter covering Denver’s neighborhoods at The Denver Post. She previously reported on social inequities in business, agriculture and trade policy, the Venezuelan refugee crisis in Peru, socioeconomic issues in Guatemala, parliamentary affairs in England, White House press briefings in Washington DC, and the cannabis industry in Colorado.
