The Feminist Act of Lifting Stuff

Words by Bridget Scott (she/her)

CW: Mentions of Dieting, Weight Loss, Fatphobia.

Existing in a body can be a bitch. Tending to our fickle needs is a minefield when society profits from undereducating and confusing everyone, especially women, on what feeling good means. Thankfully, an increasing number of us are shunning faux girlboss fitspo culture for the physical and emotional strength that is developed by pushing, pulling, and picking up heavy shit. The power of weightlifting as a sport and a feminist act is nothing short of transformative. 

There are two major styles of weightlifting. The style most familiar to the general public is powerlifting. Brydie Anderson is the North Island Vice President for the New Zealand Powerlifting Federation and says the sport is split into three major lifts: squatting with weight on the back, bench pressing weight above the chest, and deadlifting weight off the floor. In contrast, Olympic-style lifting uses a dynamic technique that demands throwing and pulling weight as high as possible, according to Victoria University of Wellington student and Olympic lifter Maia Vieregg. This style combines two lifts into one motion, a ‘clean and jerk’ and a separate snatch lift. For the viewers at home, this is the style seen at the Summer Olympics.

While the motions and strategies employed by these two sports are different, for participants they’re both about getting stronger and more comfortable within the body. 

The pursuit of strength isn't encouraged in women. Maia remembers having a problem with her big muscles and feeling embarrassed if other people mentioned them. Sport New Zealand found that by the time girls are 17, the gender gap in sport and recreation participation reaches 28%, and this trajectory continues as we grow older. This research found that this declining participation can be linked to “body image, judgement, time pressures, motivation, and loss of fun.”  Lecturer in Health Psychology Dr Octavia Calder-Dawe notes that these are sociocultural causes that have “very little to do with the materiality of women’s bodies and everything to do with social norms and entrenched cultural practices.”

This is fundamentally a feminist issue. Casey Johnston is a cultural critic and certified personal trainer. She directed health and lifestyle coverage at VICE before launching her excellent ‘She’s A Beast’ newsletter. Talking to Salient, she explains that patriarchal forces intentionally alienate women from their bodies: “If they keep us at war with ourselves, dieting and losing weight and generally staying weak, we have much less energy to ask the bigger questions about why we are afforded so little autonomy.” According to Dr Calder-Dawe, these forces manifest as everything from highly gendered uniforms, the fear of developing a “masculine” build, and the large scale social underinvestment and marginalisation of women’s sports.

Taking care of ourselves can feel insurmountably disorientating. We’re bombarded by diet culture infographics, fatphobia wielded by marketers and mothers, and influencers using performance enhancing drugs. It calls to mind the work of activist Andrea Dworkin, who wrote in 1976 about the instinct to “resist feminism because it is an agony to be fully conscious of the brutal misogyny which permeates culture, society, and all personal relationships.”

Lifting offers a pathway forward. 

The mere act of weightlifting directly challenges the norms expected of women. It demands, in Casey’s words, “being strong, being loud, setting goals that centre ourselves and pursuing them.” Doing so addresses the pain inflicted by the patriarchy through creating “a practice whose motions re-teach us that we do have agency and control over our bodies.” 

This was Maia’s experience. She started working out with her mum in a crossfit gym as a teenager. It initially started as a jokey, “funny and weird” activity to do together. But the further she progressed, the more toxic the crossfit gym became. The gym’s tendency to focus on pure performance made her feel uncomfortable and that “no matter what I achieved that day in the gym, it wasn’t enough.” She pivoted towards lifting instead and immediately started to feel better. Progress was catalysed by learning to feel attuned and aware of her body, and mastering the olympic lifting technique, rather than blindly pushing herself harder. 

Emotionally, Maia loves the sport’s focus on strength and physicality. The disregard for aesthetics allows her to escape the mindset of working out to meet nebulous beauty standards and she feels confident knowing where her strength comes from. This experience is unique to lifting, which emphasises rest and recovery. When the prospect of hitting the gym doesn’t spark joy, Maia treats this as a sign from her body to take it easy. Lifting allows her a reprieve from the guilt and dread that is created by centering exercise around looking a certain way or ticking the everchanging boxes of ‘health’.  

Dr Calder-Dawe describes this sensation as having a sense of embodiment. Broader than body image, this term encourages us to “tap into sensory experiences, including what it’s like for you subjectively to occupy the body you are occupying.” For Casey, this manifested as learning that “I could trust myself and my own perceptions and needs to make something good…how I feel is and should always be a significant factor in how I make decisions.” 

Developing this sense of comfort can be challenging, but doesn’t need to be a solitary process. Through her position on the New Zealand Powerlifting Federation’s executive, Brydie Anderson runs and competes in meets throughout Aotearoa. Both Maia and Brydie cite the lifting community in Wellington as a space where strength is celebrated.  Brydie describes the experience as incredibly uplifting, filled with crowds of spectators and fellow athletes getting loud, embracing the drama to support everyone. 

“Lifting addresses the pain inflicted by the patriarchy through creating a practice whose motions re-teach us that we do have agency and control over our bodies”

Competing isn’t necessary to find value in lifting. But Brydie emphasises that it doesn’t matter whether someone is lifting 20 or 200 kilograms, they are welcome in the community. Competitions are special because weightlifting “is a competitive sport, but it’s also about competing against your own personal best.” Maia echoes this sentiment, saying “it doesn’t matter what you’re wearing or how long you’ve been lifting…everyone is just stoked that you’re there.” Interest in the sport is taking off—while organising an upcoming novice competition in Upper Hutt, Brydie found that all 54 competitor places sold out in 24 hours and a 10-person waiting list grew. 

If you’re interested in getting started in lifting, there are countless options. I can attest to the power of Casey's book Liftoff: Couch To Barbell. It’s available online, and guides total beginners from bodyweight movements through to confidently handling a 20kg barbell and beyond. Locally, Maia suggests looking into one of the plentiful weightlifting clubs throughout the region and Brydie recommends simply talking to people. Despite their sometimes intimidating appearances, lifters are friendly, passionate people who love encouraging others to get involved in the sport.

Feelings of powerlessness, pain, and discomfort within one’s body are heartbreakingly universal among women. Engaging in activities like weightlifting that lead us closer to a state of embodiment is an important pursuit. In a world that intentionally feeds our insecurities, the process of becoming physically, mentally, and emotionally stronger is a worthy rebellion.