Estimated reading time: 10 minutes

Launching the Working with Larger Bodies seminar was a battle, not a metaphor. I fought assumptions, ignorance, and a barrage of eye-rolls from the very people who claimed to cure chronic disease, yet deemed this population unworthy of their effort.

My initial pitch to a former mentor was met with a dismissive “Athena, CrossFit already has a scaling course.” I poured my earnest passion into explaining the vision: not just scaling, but understanding the whole human, including their psychology, unspoken needs, and the daily challenges of living in a larger body. This was about what scaling never touched. His response was a gut punch: (paraphrasing) “That population doesn’t give a strong return on investment. I’ve had a few larger folks at my gym; they take a lot of time. It’s exhausting because so many never stick around” He said it as if he were doing me a favor. I walked out bruised, but resolute; I would do it anyway.

hope denied…again

A few months later, seeking to collaborate rather than reinvent the wheel, I approached a course that touched on adjacent ideas. My hope for inclusion was shattered by their reply: “These athletes don’t choose to be this way.” The sting of that moment confirmed a long-held suspicion: in the eyes of some, needing modifications meant you chose exclusion. People with obesity were a separate kind of different; a problem to work around, not a person to work with.

when the mission felt like a lie

I cried, feeling defeated. If the mission was truly about curing chronic disease, why the resistance? Why wouldn’t we want every person struggling with obesity in the gym? The pushback directly contradicted stated goals of “moving the needle” and “leading people away from sickness.” When it came to actually making space and teaching coaches how to meet these individuals where they are, the silence was deafening. There were times I deeply questioned if the mission was ever real or just a slogan people liked to say. 

they didn’t want to share the road

The recovery wasn’t easy. I went quiet, wondering if my unwavering belief was a waste of time. But eventually, I got back up. If they wouldn’t share the road, I would build my own. Not a lane, I wanted a freeway. I laid the concrete with every “no” I heard, built exits for the people they left behind, and ensured the path was wide enough for bodies that never felt welcome on the main route. I created my own intersection, and a whole lot of people were already looking for a better way in.

In late 2020, we established a feedback loop by collaborating with nearly 800 athletes who helped shape this work. They answered the critical question: “What do you wish your coaches knew?”

Let’s break it down like the nerds do… “Known & Knowable” style…. (wink)

this isn’t a niche. it’s a stadium.

We then turned to the data. We surveyed over 1,500 CrossFit gyms worldwide, asking one revealing question: “How many of your members have severe type II or III obesity?” The answer was consistent across regions and gym sizes: less than 3% of total gym membership.

With an estimated 2,000,000 CrossFitters globally at the time, even a generous 3% means approximately 60,000 members who had obesity. A more conservative 2% is still 40,000. This isn’t a niche; it’s a stadium full of people. Our sample of 800 participants represented a full 2% of this community, a gold-standard statistical sample. Political polls often survey 1,000 people to represent a nation; medical research trials frequently enroll hundreds to inform policy for millions. Our 800-person sample, drawn from a pool of 40,000, yields a margin of error of ±3.5% with 95% confidence.

challenging the old terminology

Then, I asked the big question: “What should we call this work?” CrossFit, at the time, put people who had obesity into the category of “special populations.” While well-intentioned in its origin, that label became a holding pen for anyone who didn’t fit the mold. I get that.

The term “special populations” came out of the clinical and exercise science world, mostly in the 1980s and 1990s, as a way to categorize individuals who required modified or non-traditional exercise programming. It was often used in textbooks, certifications like NASM or ACSM, and academic circles. It aimed to guide trainers toward safety, not stigma. Basically, anyone who wasn’t a healthy, able-bodied 25-year-old gym rat got lumped into this awkward grab-bag category.

It was originally meant to signal, “Hey, this person might need something different. Be careful” And okay, intention-wise, fine. But that was decades ago. And we are also CrossFit. Let’s not forget that. It’s our own independent system with its own education, certifications, and philosophy. We don’t need to play by anyone else’s rules and we never did. CrossFit doesn’t report to or fall under any larger governing fitness body. We’ve always done things our way and that independence is a big part of who we are.

When applied to individuals with obesity, the term crumbles for several reasons:

why special fails

It separates: “Special population” implies a “normal” and then “you,” drawing a line in the sand between “real athletes” and “exceptions.” For someone who’s already struggling to walk through the front door of a box, hearing they’re part of a “special population” doesn’t inspire courage. It confirms every fear they had before walking in. It says: You’re not like them. You’ll need extra help. You’re going to be a lot. Not because that’s true, but because language teaches people what to believe about themselves.

Obesity isn’t rare. It isn’t fringe. In the United States alone, almost 50% of adults meet clinical criteria for obesity. That means obesity is not a “special” circumstance; it’s a prevalent one. Using the term “special population” implies rarity or exception, which is statistically inaccurate. Calling it “special” suggests it’s an outlier, a one-off. But the numbers don’t lie; we are the majority. Calling the majority “special” isn’t just tone-deaf, it’s mathematically ridiculous.

It’s outdated. It sounds like 2001. Like flip phones and step aerobics. It doesn’t describe, it distances. What exactly is special about something this common? If anything, the phrase has become a shield to avoid change.

It implies deviation from the norm: Labeling people with obesity as “special” creates a social and psychological distance, especially in gyms that already carry high stigma.

what is really says

It reinforces outdated assumptions: This category developed when obesity was less understood and framed purely as a physical limitation. Today, we understand its complexity, influenced by geography, social environment, trauma, socioeconomics, and many other factors. 

It feels infantilizing: The word “special” now carries a shadow, landing like “special ed,” implying low expectations before the work even begins. Many grew up hearing “special” weaponized in contexts like “special diet,” which was rarely empowering. Hearing it in a space meant for empowerment and strength contradicts our mission.

It reinforces otherness: For someone who has obesity, who has struggled their whole life, all they want is to be treated the same, to belong the same.

It assumes fragility that may not exist: It paints people who have obesity as fragile by default and strips the coach of curiosity and the athlete of agency. There is a presumption of incapacity before potential is ever tested, reducing strength to stereotype and resilience to risk. “People treat me like I’m breakable, and I’m deadlifting more than they are,” one athlete shared.

same weight different world.

Two athletes walk in. Same weight on the scale, both weighing 350 pounds. That’s where the similarities end. One has chronic joint pain, making a simple air squat agonizing. The other is an absolute beast that defies expectations. If you coach based on what you think you see, or worse, what you expect to see, you fail them both. Coaches who treat “350 pounds” as a diagnosis rather than a data point box athletes into categories they don’t belong in. One is coddled, the other punished for looking like someone they’re not. Neither is seen.

This is why training matters. Obesity isn’t one thing; it’s not a universal limit. It’s a diverse, capable, inconsistent, and wildly misunderstood population. Coaches must distinguish between those who need foundational support and those who need challenge, assessing movement, not just mass. They need to recognize arthritis in a squat, how past trauma might show up, and when a high-performing athlete is holding back due to years of underestimation.

Coaching people who have obesity is like coaching a box of chocolates: you don’t know what you’re getting until you unwrap it. If you assume, or slap a scale-based identity on someone before you see them move, you’re not just making a mistake; you’re robbing them of their potential. The size might be the same, but the story (the movement, the mindset, the history) is entirely different.

The question is: Are you skilled enough to see the difference? Because they’ll know within five minutes if you’re not. Guess what? They leave. They don’t stick around. To that previous mentor I had? “They never stuck around”. No disrespect but no shit….

*Athena lets out sigh as she strums her fingers on the keyboard and rolls her eyes to the back of her head*.

we asked. we listened.

We tested “special populations” first. Obviously, for all the reasons above, that thing got torched like dry paper in a bonfire. Ninety-three percent of respondents said no. I was not the least surprised. 

We tried others: “Working with obese….,” “Working with overweight……” Every phrase didn’t work because we needed something neutral, something that named a fact, not a flaw. I sent a list back to the community, and one term stood out above the rest: Larger-Bodied Athletes or Larger Bodies.

And here is something I think all of you should know.

What made this even more revealing was who we were asking. We weren’t looking to Games athletes or seminar staff or approval from HQ. We were talking to our own people. Our community. We were asking larger bodied CrossFitters themselves to help us name what this seminar needed to be. And what came back was more heartbreaking than we expected.

Some of the first suggestions were things like, “CrossFit for Fatties.” These weren’t jokes. They weren’t flippant or sarcastic. They were offered honestly, by people who had never been given another option. The only language they had ever heard used to describe themselves in fitness spaces was negative, clinical, or condescending. So when we asked them what they would call something that was built for them, many didn’t know how to respond without using the very same words that had wounded them.

Even our own community had to be reminded that it’s possible to describe a body without attaching value to it. The fitness world had gone so long without offering a neutral, respectful way to speak about these athletes that even the athletes themselves didn’t know what it could sound like.

the seminar

We weren’t just naming a course. We were reclaiming the right to speak about ourselves in a way we could believe change is possible.

Not defined by weight, not boxed in by assumptions and not flattened into a clinical category. This term didn’t assume ability, assign morality, or whisper anything about character or capability. It simply described a current physical state; one they could change at their own pace in their own way.

We voted twice; over 90 percent of the participants said yes. In a feedback loop of that size,  that is as close to a slam dunk as you get. This was respect, by request and 800 voices are more than enough to change the damn conversation.

This isn’t just semantics. It’s belonging. And language is one of the first doors we walk through.

When 800 people raised their hands, they weren’t asking for special treatment. They were asking to be seen.

Naming the seminar and population? It was a start; a seeing, a naming, and a beginning. 

And we’re only just getting started *smile*.

“Special” had its moment. The rest of us are moving forward; feel free to join us when you’re ready.