Before I saw him deadlift four plates, I was a certified “i’ll start tomorrow” gay.

Then he walked in wearing grey sweats, and suddenly I’m meal-prepping two kilos of chicken at midnight like a tradwife on a caffeine meltdown.

These men turned my body dysmorphia into body building, my “maybe next year” into “watch me right now”.

Every time I want to skip the gym, I remember the way he looked when he finally hit his goal: glassy eyes, smiling like he came out for the second time.

This is queer alchemy — turning trauma into traps, heartbreak into hamstrings, religious guilt into rear delts.

Watching him grow taught me that transition isn’t just hormones. It’s showing up when you’re broke, when you’re scared, when your family still calls it “a phase”.

To every muscular queer reading this: your body is a protest march. Your gains are a love language. Your existence is resistance.

Thank you for making the gym feel like liberation instead of punishment.

One day I’ll stand next to you in the mirror and we’ll both know we made it out.

Until then, I lift for both of us.

see you at the rack, comrade. 👑