In a culture that constantly tells us what strong, attractive, and successful bodies are supposed to look like, it’s easy to lose sight of what our bodies actually do for us. In this personal reflection, Tyler explores the intersection of anxiety, fitness, and beauty standards—unpacking how years of chasing a certain look shaped his relationship with working out, and how slowly shifting his focus toward function over form has helped him redefine self‑worth. This story is not about achieving a perfect body, but about questioning who those ideals are for, and what it really means to feel capable, present, and at home in your own skin
The Weight of Beauty Standards
It is oddly disorienting to look at your body, and somehow feel a disconnect between what it is capable of doing versus how it should look for such capability. I can deadlift over 300 pounds, my max bench was just 15 pounds shy of 200, I can string together 21 unbroken kipping pullups…so why doesn’t my body look like it can do that?
I think many people can relate to the pervasive body standards that we’re subjected to from…probably adolescence? For Gen Xers, it was the hyper masculine body builders and the Jane Fondas of the 80s. For Millennials, it was the Abercrombie and Fitch models and the era of the supermodel (we all think of Kate Moss but lately I’ve been seeing a lot of clips of Shalom Harlow and Naomi Campbell). I’m sure there are nuances here and there but the gist remains: how are we supposed to measure up to that? We’re subjected to that standard from precious teen years, and then spend decades unlearning it.
When Is It Ever Enough?
Regardless of whomever perpetuates body standards, I can at least attest to feeling like I had to meet them. I spent my adolescence and most of my 20s not being big enough, toned enough, athletic enough. Even sacrificing a svelte waist for overall size felt worthy. Somehow, from the age of 25 to 32, would be a steady increase in bodyweight where I went from 140 pounds to 180 pounds. Suddenly, I got what I thought I would sacrifice and, shocker: I still wasn’t happy. I thought by having more size on my body, I’d meet those standards. Not only did I not feel like I met those standards, but I somehow felt both too skinny and too fat.
At what point was I supposed to be content or even proud of how I looked? Who am I doing this for? And do their opinions even matter?
Trading the Mirror for the Moment
Slowly (very slowly), from age 32 until now, I began a frank reprogramming of my thinking, and I started asking and answering frank questions:
Are the people who expect this amazing looking body from me the kind of people I want to be around Will having a perfect body ensure that those people will show up for me in times of need? Do the people whose opinions and friendship I value care about how I look? Does having a perfect body promise a more fulfilling social life?
Well….no.
If none of those things mattered, then it had to come back to function. Visible abs weren’t going to net me closer friendships, but strength training helped me lug heavy furniture up three flights of stairs for Randy. Looking like Connor Storrie from Heated Rivalry isn’t going to ensure I attract the love of my life, but cardio workouts ensured I could get through an 8 minute number, kicking and spinning, while Kaela smiles on and tells me how much fun she had at the show.
Where the Weight Finally Falls
I still struggle with body image issues, and the question I posed at the beginning: my body can do these great things, so why doesn’t it look like that? And yeah, I know: it’s probably due to diet. Like, a lot of it. But I’m frequently unaware of what my body looks like to others as it is, and it’s so damn satisfying to cross off the number from an old PR and writing down a new one on the PR board. Why should it matter, then, how it looks? I can tell it’s still getting stronger, able to endure longer workouts, and still limber and flexible.
I think that’s what should matter.
