The Strength in Me

The other day, I was absently feeling my arm when I noticed a firmness along the upper, outer side. I pressed on it. Still there. I flexed my elbow, and the firmness became even more pronounced.

What was this foreign mass in my body?

Cancer? Abscess? Hematoma?

Nope.It was my deltoid.

A vibrant pop art style illustration of a confident woman displaying her deltoid muscle, showcasing strength and elegance with bold colors and striking features.

When I was in elementary school and junior high, I dreaded the start of every new unit in gym class. On day one, we’d all line up against the wall while the teacher chose two captains. Then came the slow, public humiliation: the captains taking turns picking teammates. Whether it was a popularity contest or a strategic grab for the strongest and fastest, I always ended up at the bottom.

I can still feel it—my face flushing, my muscles tightening—as I tried to hold a neutral expression while more and more classmates peeled away to join their teams. And when it was finally over, I joined the team that had no choice but to take me and sat at the end of the line, head down, burning with embarrassment.

Are there support groups for the trauma of gym class? Or is this just a particular kind of shame some of us quietly carry for years on end?

Kids in colorful outfits stand against the gym wall, ready for their next activity in gym class.

The idea behind gym class is a good one: get kids out from behind their desks, moving their bodies, breathing deeply. But for me, it meant an hour of a clenched stomach, low-grade nausea, and a steady blow to my dignity. The ease with which math and science came to me seemed inversely related to my ability to bump a volleyball or catch a softball. That one hour a day—Monday through Friday, September through June—shaped how I saw myself well into adulthood. Even now, when my personal trainer says I’m athletic or strong, I instinctively shrink back into that sixth-grade posture, waiting to be picked.

So when I felt that firmness in my arm, it would have been easier to believe it was a tumor than to assume it was muscle. The perceptions we form as children don’t just disappear; they follow us. I still cringe when someone says, “Let’s play football” at Friendsgiving. I used to leave Fourth of July gatherings early just to avoid the inevitable summer volleyball game. Childhood wounds cut deep, and the grooves they carve take a long time to soften.

But since discovering that firmness, I’ve returned to it from time to time—noticed its strength, its presence. There’s something quietly powerful about realizing that this muscle didn’t appear by accident. Strength training matters, especially for women in perimenopause. As estrogen fluctuates and declines, we lose muscle more easily, our bones become more vulnerable, and our metabolism slows. Lifting weights isn’t about chasing athleticism or aesthetics. It’s not about being the first one picked for kickball. It’s about preservation and resilience—protecting bone density, supporting joints, improving balance, and maintaining independence as we age. For women like me, who never saw ourselves as “athletic,” strength training offers a different story: one where capability matters more than coordination, and where getting stronger isn’t about winning a game, but about staying well.

A group of diverse, confident women standing together, embodying strength and unity.

Nothing will change my past. I will always be the kid picked last in gym class, the one hiding behind a classmate in the outfield, the one who—year after year—clocked zero seconds on the Presidential Fitness chin-over-the-bar hold.

But now, I know what this firmness is.It’s not a fluke. It’s not a mistake.It’s something I built.

And now, it’s me and my deltoid. And that feels like something worth claiming.