Estimated reading time: 4 minutes

The infamous CrossFit Shirt Battle

There was a time when I thought the battle was apparel. I really believed that if CrossFit just carried a wider range of sizes, we could fix a tiny piece of what keeps people out. Behind that vision, I pictured a new athlete, nervous and shaking, walking through the door with that brave, quiet breath you only take when you are doing something absolutely terrifying. I imagined them finishing their first workout, cheeks flushed, heart pounding, not sure whether they just died or somehow came alive. Then, walking toward the merch wall with shaking hands because buying a shirt would mean, for the first time, they belonged somewhere that once felt impossible.

walking in scared

But here is the part most people will never understand. People who have always fit the room never question the room. They have never sat in the car for an hour before going inside, whispering to themselves: “just ten seconds, then just walk in, you can do it”. They have never wiped sweaty palms on leggings while bargaining with horrific fear. When you have lived in a body that has been ridiculed, studied, dismissed, and underestimated, stepping into a gym is not easy. It feels like you are stepping into a room where everyone already decided who you are before you even breathe.

People love to say no one is watching you, but when you have been stared at your whole life, you don’t trust that awkward silence. And yet you show up anyway. That is the part no one sees. The bravest thing some of us ever did was walk through the front door.

why the shirt mattered

So yes. At one time I thought the shirt mattered. Because if they could pick up a shirt and see a size that met them where they stood in that moment, they might feel like they were allowed to be there; courage counted, and the room made space for them. I wanted that moment for people because I knew how much it meant to begin.

when the message got twisted

Somewhere along the way, though, people twisted it. They decided I was “advocating for obesity”. As if a piece of fabric in a bigger size was a love letter to complacency. Wanting someone to feel welcome meant I was celebrating obesity. They didn’t see the difference between making room and giving up. I never wanted people to just give up! I fought for joy and hope because it’s fuel and the air we breathe. There was never an ounce of shit given to cheap imported cotten, it was always about dignity.

the truth i found

Over time, I learned it was never about the shirt. The real battleground was the dirt underneath the thinking that says your worth depends solely on the ability to wear that shirt. That lie grows fast in a world that worships that lie. But I don’t. God never once asked me to prove I was worthy; He asked me to become whole. And sometimes wholeness looks like showing up in a body that is still learning, saying, I’m fucking here anyway.

i don’t fight the same battles anymore

So today, when someone says, If “they” really wanted it, they would just try hard until it fits, I don’t get mad the way I once might have. That voice does not threaten me anymore. They have never had to fight the kind of battles that build the faith and grit I and others have had to build. They have never had to become brave before they became strong. Some of us had to lift ourselves through the front door first. And I saw that long before anyone else did, and I still do.

what it was always really about

The shirt was never the story. Maybe one day the world will catch up. Until then, I will keep loving people into belonging because that is the work that lasts. And if a shirt fits someone along the way, great. If it doesn’t, that is alright too.

My goal for people was never cotton, it was always freedom.

It’s ironic in the weirdest way. While the industry congratulates themselves on “being back”, I smile. Why? Because the ones who have carried the work never left. We have always known who we were long before they rembered who they wanted to be.

*she chuckles a bit as she thinks about the last eight years…. smiles and turns off the light*.

Goodnight.