But does she fuck?

This comment and others like it are regularly showcased by popular social media page @you.look.like.a.man (YLLAM), using cleverly juxtaposed imagery of landscapes and flowers to directly contrast the ugly nature of the comments. The page features ‘trolls’ on accounts of women in strength sports, from elite to civilian, and brings to light the real problem of online bullying directed at women in the athletic space.

We are the same people who post booty burn workouts on Instagram and promote magazines with photos of Ashy Bines on the cover. We plug juice cleanses, keto, thigh gaps, and whatever is the fucking flavour of the #healthandfitness month. I don’t know what that makes us, but it is certainly not allied health professionals.

It’s so easy to write off an unsuccessful relationship, friendship, or job as being just a mistake and charging the fuck back onto Seek, Tinder, Grinder, or possibly Gumtree.

Be the resilient motherfucker who emerges from #iso a stronger and better human.

I think that opinions which minimise sexual violence are, for want of a better word, fucked, and that if everyone thought it was a waste of energy to correct this misinformed bullshit then we as a society are in a pretty dark place.

Readily available results are easy, sure, but they’re fleeting as fuck. Jack and Rose had a beautiful fucking romance, for like two days. Then one of them died and the other one got all old and stupid and threw away a priceless heirloom just to prove some weird point, which still annoys me every time I watch it.

Am I disciplined? Am I courageous? Am I authentic? These are the things I WANT to be, and the things I want to be seen as, but are they an actual facet of me or just meaningless hashtags I add to my fucking Instagram posts along with #chickswholift and #chickswithtattoos?

Post-competition my brain is all cracked open and the raw, gooey feelings are just waiting to be dissected and analysed, so let's fucking go.

So maybe its time to actually apply some of this mindgold I’ve been drilling into my brain for the past year or so rather than wallowing in irrelevant BS and reverting to old habits to conceal hurt around some very fucking expired events experienced by someone who isn’t really me anymore.

I’m of the strong fucking opinion that the only failure is to be in the same place in your life a year later, in terms of personal growth and just general badass-ery.

It’s fucking hard to accept that sometimes our 100% isn’t enough to attain the outcome we so badly want, so we search for excuses that offer us reassurance, when in reality shit just happens to everyone and at random, so it’s kind of up to you if you want to lose the absolute plot over it, or just move the fuck on to your clean and jerks and nail them.

Since I started this sport, I’ve always felt like I had something to prove. Kind of like in the same way you want to show the popular girls who were mean to you at school that you’re way hotter than them now.

The magic part is that when the pieces of you find each other and come back together, you are one resilient motherfucker and likely in a much better place for it.

If we’re constantly on the edge of our seats waiting for some horrific adversity to occur, how can we truly take the time to appreciate, or even realise for that matter, when shit ISN’T hitting the fan?

Am I right in thinking that if you don’t care this much about something then you don’t really care ? If you’re not crying at the thought of not reaching a potential you feel you have inside you, is that thing you’re striving for really something you even want?

If you feel trapped in a relationship that is fucking you up, know that you are not a burden and that it is more than OK to reach out and to ask for help. If it’s me you reach out to know that I’m no longer the teenage idiot who swept this shit under the rug. Domestic violence and spousal abuse in whatever form it takes is everyone’s fucking problem.

I’ll be like FUCK EVERYTHING and get five more cats and walk them all on leashes whilst eating Nutella from the jar, wearing grey track-pants and listening to Celine Dion’s greatest hits without headphones.

A decision that came from some fairly negative experiences led to one of the most positive ones I’ve ever made, a fact that I need to keep telling myself when I’m in the depths of yet another regular ‘I’ll never be good enough’ meltdown.

The thought of life swinging it's dick at us willy- nilly and us gaining nothing from copping it in the face just doesn’t bear thinking about.

Scars are obviously cool and maybe we should all be acknowledging how they’ve shaped us and made us who we are rather than fixing ourselves up with filters and bullshit and saying good thanks automatically when someone asks how we’re doing.