It all started with a photograph on a writer's Facebook page. She stood backstage at a bikini competition, wearing heels and a sparkly bikini, holding a trophy high overhead. Part of me thought she looked ridiculous with silver eyeshadow and a deep spray tan, but her smile radiated strength and accomplishment. I couldn't recall the last time I felt strong or accomplished. I was nearly 50, had been parenting for 22 consecutive years, and was in the muddy middle of writing a memoir about my decade in Japan's underbelly. My day job involved teaching children's yoga and nutrition, where I instructed my daughters and students in downward dog, boat pose, and healthy eating, while also promoting nonjudgment and unconditional self-acceptance.
Defying Personal Beliefs
Bikini competitions contradicted these principles. Parading on stage in a tiny swimsuit for judges went against my morals. Yet, I couldn't shake the idea of competing. My friends were as perplexed as I was. Why not just work out? they asked. Why demean yourself in a bikini competition? I explained that I needed a trainer's discipline to guide me and a non-negotiable deadline. I needed skin in the game, someone who wouldn't let me quit.
Some thought I was having a midlife crisis. I wondered the same. Perhaps something was misfiring in my brain because I don't have a competitive bone. Others accused me of setting unrealistic body expectations for my daughters, then 11 and 21. I sat down with them and explained it wasn't about dieting or losing weight; it was about their mother completing a difficult task and becoming stronger. Linda Hamilton's physique as Sarah Connor in "Terminator 2" had long been my goal, but it wasn't just her body I admired. I was drawn to her transformation from a mother dealt a bad hand in "The Terminator" to the formidable warrior she became. I wanted some of that bad-assery, including her emotional resilience. I told myself to get a grip, but as my 50th birthday approached, I couldn't let go of the idea. I reached out to the writer in the Facebook picture, who introduced me to her trainer.
Starting the Transformation
Dressed in my husband's shapeless SXSW T-shirt and baggy gray sweats, I stepped into Team Fitness gym to begin a five-month transformation I couldn't afford. I had never had extra money to spend, especially not on something as vain as a bodybuilding competition, but my husband said he would figure out a way to pay for it to celebrate my milestone birthday.
Behind the desk, my new trainer Yelena had a picture of a woman in a black tank top and cargo pants standing in the desert with a shotgun. "That's me as Sarah Connor," she said in her thick Russian accent. "You know, from 'Terminator'?" I couldn't believe it. Among the kettlebells and dumbbells, I had found my coach.
Yelena, with her killer body, dagger-like gold nails, and hairless Sphynx cat, assessed my physical metrics. She told me I had the metabolic age of a 39-year-old, but my body fat percentage, especially visceral, was too high. She had me outline exactly what I ate daily and how much. Even though I teach nutrition, I was surprised to learn I wasn't eating enough, especially protein.
The Humbling First Workout
My first workout with Yelena was humbling. Somewhere between 5-pound shoulder presses and push-ups, I began to see stars. Nausea set in. Yelena told me to rest, then we continued. Thirty seconds into my first of three one-minute planks, knife-like pain shot through my lower back. I began to shake. "What's your favorite color?" Yelena asked. I could barely breathe, let alone converse. On an exhale, I managed to blurt out "green," the color of the heart chakra. "Good. Now visualize yourself on stage in a green bikini holding your trophy." I thought she was insane, but I completed that one-minute plank without lowering my knees.
Accountability and Support
Initially, I wanted to fly under the radar. After five months, I hoped to rip off my sweats to reveal a stronger me. But by the end of my third week, I told everyone who would listen, partly for validation but more for accountability. It was one thing to quit on myself, but I didn't want to appear as a quitter in public. My younger daughter became my taskmaster, watching over me to ensure I stuck to my meal plan. My 21-year-old vegetarian daughter, disgusted by my copious chicken consumption, cheered me on. My husband returned from Costco with white fish, organic chicken breasts, and cartons of egg whites.
Compared to writing my memoir, weightlifting was less agonizing. Once I got past the initial learning curve of new vocabulary—time under tension, German volume, RPE, Smith machine, squat rack, split squats, RDLs, straight-legged deadlifts—and how to safely use the machines, I simply put my head down and banged out reps. There was no staring at a blank screen, no editing or second-guessing. Ten weeks in, it became easier to get up in the mornings, and I could get through most days without a nap.
The Competition Bikini and Posing
When it came time to buy my competition bikini, I felt nauseated by the cost. Depending on bejeweling, bikinis range from hundreds to thousands of dollars. Thankfully, the owner of Suit Lady, a go-to boutique, helped me choose a gorgeous emerald green one from the consignment rack. It was half the regular price and, as I had pictured, the color of the heart chakra.
One of the most important pieces of the puzzle was posing. I hated Saturday posing classes. I felt self-conscious and awkward wobbling on 4-inch lucite heels. Trying to remember my choreography was almost impossible: quarter turn to the right, front pose, back pose, sexy walk, superwoman pose. "If you think your butt is sticking out, stick it out more," Yelena said. "Try to look natural but walk with straight legs—like this." I tried to emulate her, but it felt hopeless. "Arch your back. Tits over toes!" she repeated. Those three words became a household favorite. My husband and girls yelled them when they caught me slouching and chanted them to cheer me up after grueling posing classes.
Despite their encouragement, I felt like a terrible mother. There were a thousand more important things to do than teetering around in high heels. Floors to mop, meals to make, homework to help with. I tried to quit twice, but Yelena wouldn't let me. "If you don't have confidence in yourself, borrow mine," she said. "I have full confidence in you." This concept of borrowing someone else's belief worked. I got my head back in the game. At 5 a.m. each day, I pedaled my husband's road bike mounted on a stand in our bedroom. To educate myself and drown out his snoring, I listened to Oprah's "Super Soul Sunday" podcasts and other shows about trauma-informed weightlifting. I was fascinated by weightlifting as a means of moving trauma out of the body through grounding.
Competition Day and Beyond
On competition day, bikini-clad women sat on towels on the theater's backroom floor—an overpacked jumble of hair, heels, bathrobes, makeup, doughnuts, and gummy bears. (Sugar on competition day can give a pumped-up look.) For the first time, I felt like a real athlete, and it was intoxicating.
I met women with their own reasons for lifting heavy. One dealt with grief. Another proved she could live with a potentially life-threatening disease and still kick butt. There was a mother-daughter duo honoring an ill family member. One woman, like me, was about to turn 50, but this competition was more than a milestone; it was a personal revolution. Knowing my family, friends, and the writer from the original Facebook post were in the audience made me so nervous that I messed up my left and right during my routine. Whether that kept me from placing top three in the Grandmasters Competition for women over 45 didn't matter. Even without a trophy, standing on that stage in my green bikini after years of feeling invisible made me feel like a motherf***ing panther woman.
Reflections and Impact
Maybe you don't agree with women participating in a sport some find demeaning. There are things I don't love either: women must wear high heels while men compete barefoot, subjective judging, and the cost. But let's focus on positives. The high after that first competition lasted weeks. I usually get the flu or colds over winter, but during training, I didn't get sick once. I lowered my metabolic age, lost 18% body fat, and gained muscle. But the thing I'm most proud of is setting an almost impossible goal and seeing it through. This instilled a sense of accomplishment I'd never felt before. My kids and husband were sick of hearing about workouts and macros, but they were thrilled to see me happy.
The Natural Physique and Athletics Association put me on a promo poster, and Yelena hung a large picture of me beside her Sarah Connor photo. Strangers at the gym approached me. They'd seen my picture or watched me train. Each had her own struggles and said I inspired her. Knowing my training positively affected people I didn't know made me realize that what I'd done, which at times felt selfish and vain, was a catalyst for change. This shocked and delighted me most.
The following year, Yelena convinced me to do another competition. This time I placed top three in both the 45+ grandmasters and open categories. This motivated me to create and lead a free 90-day transformation challenge on Facebook during the pandemic lockdown. Dozens of women joined and were thrilled with their results. I even arranged a group photo shoot at the beach for local participants to celebrate their achievements.
I'm 56 now. While I have no desire to compete again, I feel stronger and healthier than ever. I ensure enough protein and work out regularly. I no longer follow a strict protocol—if the sun shines, I hike with my dog. I lift weights at the gym once or twice a week and work out at home other days. My initial desire to compete wasn't about my 50th birthday; it was about self-actualizing and reclaiming my inner wild. I still invoke Sarah Connor as inspiration, but I don't need to save the world. I just need to be true to myself and, if lucky, inspire a few others along the way.
Dhana Musil lives on the unceded and occupied territories of the Squamish, Musqueam, and Tsleil-Waututh people in British Columbia, Canada. She is a mother of two daughters. Her stories and essays have been published in various anthologies and literary journals such as The Ex-Puritan, The Tahoma Literary Review, Grain Magazine, and forthcoming in SugarSugarSalt Magazine. This piece was previously published on HuffPost and is being shared again now as part of HuffPost Personal's "Best Of" series.
