“Let’s begin with the elliptical machine,” suggested the trainer.
It was back in 2012, during my initial session with a personal trainer.
“Sure, a warm-up sounds good,” I thought to myself.
But then he added:
“…since lifting weights might be too challenging for you.”
Confused, I thought, “Too challenging? Why would he say that?”
His words continued: “We need to work on shedding that extra weight around your midsection!”
Embarrassed, I glanced down at my stomach. Like the rest of my body, it was larger.
However, weight loss wasn’t my primary reason for seeking training.
I clenched my fists in frustration.
I considered explaining my background and goals to him, but my desire to please held me back from speaking up.
Instead, I obediently climbed onto the elliptical machine.
“See you next time,” he cheerfully said as the session ended.
“Sure,” I replied.
But there wouldn’t be another session with him—at least, not for me.
A few months after that personal training session, I entered a CrossFit gym.
Upon seeing the barbells and the people using them, I felt a surge of excitement.
Instantly, I knew that this was the type of strength training that resonated with me.
When the instructor instructed us to prepare and demonstrated the deadlift, I loaded my barbell with anticipation, gazing at those 125 pounds of iron.
However, the trainer approached me and removed weight plates one by one.
Confused, I asked, “Is something wrong?”
“I’m not sure if you’re quite ready for that weight yet,” he responded.
A flush of heat rose to my cheeks.
I was more than capable. Possibly even stronger than some of the smaller individuals in the class.
But because he hadn’t asked, he didn’t know about my background or achievements.
He saw me as a novice, both in his class and in fitness overall. Once again, I remained silent. During that period of my life, I lacked confidence.
I simply wanted to fit in. So, I followed his instructions.
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There are many misconceptions about individuals like me who have larger bodies.
People often associate a larger body with weakness.
They mistakenly believe that we’ve never attempted to change our shape or size, which is typically not the case.
Not too long ago, I sat on an examination table for a wellness check.
Before inquiring about my history, the new doctor remarked, “What are your thoughts on weight loss? Losing 10 percent of your body weight could…”
My stomach churned with a mix of anger, shame, and disbelief.
In the flimsy paper gown, I felt vulnerable. I stared at him, blinking rapidly, trying to figure out how to tell him that I had already shed 50 pounds. That was more than 10 percent of my body weight already.
Once again, this healthcare professional didn’t inquire about my history or current habits. He simply assumed.
My past might surprise you.
At 8 years old, I was what many would call a large girl—but that’s not how my dad viewed me.
He saw my potential, my strength, and my beauty.
My dad had big brown welcoming eyes, a hearty laugh that could brighten anyone’s day, and a contagious can-do attitude.
As he always said: “There’s no reason you can’t. Can’t never could.”
Several times a week, he invited me to join him at the firehouse where he worked. In the TV room, there was a weight bench, a set of dumbbells, and a Smith machine. With the aroma of spaghetti, chili, and cornbread drifting in from the nearby kitchen, Dad turned up the music and asked, “Are you ready?”
During each session, he encouraged me to attempt things that initially seemed impossible.
Things that, at least in my mind, weren’t meant for a girl.
Especially not a big girl like me.
After each session, I felt empowered, capable, and proud.
For reasons I can’t fully explain, I didn’t continue.
My parents split up. Dad moved out. I grew into a self-conscious teenager and young adult who smoked.
By my twenties, the scale displayed 284 pounds, and my doctor labeled me as “morbidly obese.”
I vowed to never step on a scale again.
Then, in my thirties, I experienced a stroke, prompting me to prioritize my health.
My wellness journey commenced with a mere two-minute walk on the treadmill.
It involved daily battles with self-doubt and depression.
There were gradual, awkward improvements in my diet and treadmill routine—and eventually, a deep affection for lifting weights.
By the time I encountered that trainer in 2012, I had shed 30 pounds and was running half marathons. By the time I met the second trainer at the CrossFit gym, I had lost 50 pounds—and could effortlessly deadlift 125 pounds.
And now?
I can deadlift 250 pounds and power clean over 130.
I’m also a certified health coach and CrossFit instructor.
I am not weak. Not physically—and certainly not mentally.
Kelly Fucheck lifting 125 pounds overhead during a barbell clinic.
Shedding weight and maintaining it has been one of my most challenging endeavors.
It ranks alongside walking into the gym as a daunting task.
No matter how strong I become, people consistently underestimate me—solely based on my appearance.
Some may question: What motivates me to persist?
I frequent the gym partly because I want to avoid another stroke. I don’t want to leave my children motherless. And I definitely don’t want to reach 280 pounds again.
However, during my toughest moments, it’s my dad who guides me through those gym doors.
In 2014, he was rushed to the hospital with pancreatitis. Three weeks later, at 57 years old, he passed away.
I still mourn his absence. Every weightlifting session helps me keep a part of him close to me.
“I’m going to push through this regardless of what others say,” I remind myself whenever self-doubt creeps in.
“Can’t never could. Can’t never could. Can’t. Never. Could. I’m stepping through this door.”
Sometimes, I wish I could turn back time—I’d be more vocal, advocate, educate.
Instead of swallowing my words and following instructions, I’d communicate with those healthcare professionals about the depth of my identity beyond my size.
“Hey, I have experience with weightlifting,” I envision myself saying, “I’d love to demonstrate what I’m capable of.”
I’d recommend that doctor gather a comprehensive history before jumping to conclusions.
It wouldn’t bother me to tell numerous individuals, “I notice you’re staring at me.”
And those “good for you, honey” remarks can truly sting.
Most importantly, I want anyone with a similar body to mine to understand this:
Hold onto your purpose tightly.
When you feel fearful, intimidated, or unworthy—and you will—recall why you’re on this journey. Keep that reason close to your heart and believe in your ability to conquer anything.
Your motivation will propel you forward. And I’ll be standing by your side.
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