As I eyed my body in the mirror, I noticed a change; a couple months of dedicated pole training had sculpted my arms. My shoulders and back were broader, and my chest was firmer. With my naturally slender, athletic build, the new-found upper-body muscle made me look boxy, lacking the curves traditionally associated with femininity. I shrugged it off. I was climbing the pole with ease now, taking higher-level classes, and my body was getting stronger—that’s all that mattered.
It was my grandmother’s offhand remark that first made me reconsider: “You betta stop all dat exercise. Your body go look like boy”

Boy
The word echoed in my mind. I couldn’t shake it off; that was all I could see in the mirror.
Self-consciousness crept in. I had already known that, out of the line-up, I wasn't the first pick. Cuz of my skin, I was black from within and without the protrusions that made black women exotic on the market. I was going to be relegated to a second-class citizen among women.
I remember when a guy first commented on my build. He said it in a surprised and defiant tone, as if I had stepped on his shoes. We were stocking up for the night, getting the bar ready for the morning shift. He was shocked when I carried the two cases of beer up the flight of stairs by myself.
"Oh, you strong, huh?”
Strong
I didn't think I was; in fact, I was very weak, mentally at least, but I used my body as a shield to cover up my insecurities. One of them being my androgynous nature. From a very young age, I learned how to slip and slide between categories of male and female. Though I was always told to store the masculine away in the bid for a suitable mate, I was meant to cook and clean; that was my place. Seeing my defiance so obviously written on my body made others weary.
For the first time, I experienced the disconnect between the aesthetic valuation of my body and the functional valuation of my body. Being a woman makes you realize that these two are not the same. You are meant to pluck, smooth, and shape yourself into an idealized image, regardless of the pain.
Embracing my strength made me a better pole dancer, but it also made me a more masculine woman. It was ironic that a sport defined by booty poppin’ and body waves was making me look more and more like a boy.
This journey forced me to question why the boundaries around femininity were so strict. The belt around my waist had finally begun to itch, signaling to me that it was time to let go and explore. If doing the one thing that made me happy also made me look like a boy, then so be it. I would rather be a happy boy than a miserable girl.
In embracing this aspect of myself, I discovered a new sense of empowerment and body acceptance
Yet my muscular physique placed me at odds with femininity. All of a sudden, I could no longer operate in the same space as women. Men would jokingly call me the’ husband’ in the relationship; they would tell me to stop acting like a boy; and sometimes they would downright ignore me.
These instances made me reconsider our notion of beauty. I believe that this image of the demure and delicate is more indicative of the image that we have been sold of beauty than it is a reflection of what is actually beautiful or feminine. It’s an image that plays off our insecurities. The health, fitness, beauty, and fashion industries are worth trillions of dollars; they profit from instilling body dysmorphia and negative social comparison. They tell us that if we aren't pressed and proper, we’re not worthy of a lover. But I don't think that's true.
I think about how this image has robbed us of what it is like to be truly feminine. It has scrubbed it clean and rinsed it so thoroughly that there is no room for the messiness, roughness, or wildness that characterize what it is to be a woman.
When I think about what it is like to be a woman, I think of Kali, the Hindu goddess of creation, time, death, and destruction. She is often depicted as a wild woman with blood-smeared lips and a garland of skulls adorning her naked chest. Each of her eight arms holds a weapon, and her tongue hangs out, daring anyone to challenge her. Her beauty is not shallow, manageable, or safe. It’s wild, unpredictable, inspiring, and downright scary at times.
She embodies a femininity that is not performative. She strays far from the ideal of a woman as dutiful, obedient, and submissive. She is nature at its rawest and most untamed.
In teetering on the edges of what defines a woman and man. I've learned that this faulty image encourages women to limit their horizon, their potential, for the sake of others. Not only is this image a bad representation of femininity, it quite literally incapacitates women. It takes the functional and aesthetic valuation of their bodies and puts them at odds with one another. This representation of femininity bears very little resemblance to our functional anatomy and musculoskeletal development, which has been with us for the past 200,000 years of our evolution.
Where in this image is the freedom to move and to be without seeking permission?
So when a female client comes to me for personal training, and the first thing she says is, “I want to lose weight” or “I don't want to be too muscular." I think deeply about where these motivations come from and the pressures that may be influencing her desires. These statements, as innocent as they may sound, reflect the body standards that most women adhere to. We are willing to go to the gym to shed a few pounds or get a bigger butt, but when it comes to developing functional awareness of our bodies and movement patterns that have been with us for ages, there is a disconnect.
I think it's time that we pay more attention to what our bodies can do than how they look.
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