There was a version of me that didn’t think she’d make it.
She stayed small. Quiet. Hidden.
She survived.
And for a long time, survival felt like enough.
But survival is not the same as living.
Twelve years ago, I was buried in a place so dark it didn’t feel like there was a way out. Depression doesn’t knock politely. It floods the room, fills your lungs, and convinces you the weight on your chest is permanent. Mine was layered. Childhood sexual abuse. Years of being bullied for my weight. A family that loved me, but didn’t always know how to show it in the way I needed to feel safe and valued.
I grew up learning how to endure, not how to heal.
And endurance, without direction, turns into quiet suffering.
By the time I found CrossFit, I was carrying more than just extra weight on my body. I was carrying shame. Fear. Pain that had settled into my bones. I was a smoker for over half my life. I was making yearly trips to the hospital because my asthma was out of control. My back hurt constantly, eventually revealing multiple slipped discs. My world had become smaller and smaller, and I had followed it inward.
Then, in 2014, I walked into CrossFit Ansbach in Ansbach, Germany.
And something shifted.
Not all at once. Not in some cinematic, overnight transformation. It started small, almost unnoticeable. Showing up. Learning movements. Struggling through workouts that left me breathless in more ways than one.
But here’s what I didn’t expect: CrossFit didn’t just challenge my body.
It challenged the story I believed about myself. I was healing through fitness.
The methodology is simple on paper: constantly varied, functional movements, executed at high intensity. But underneath that is something much deeper. CrossFit addresses the full spectrum of human health. It demands physical effort, yes, but it also builds neurological resilience, emotional capacity, and social connection.
And science backs that up.
High-intensity functional training has been shown to improve not only cardiovascular and metabolic health, but also mental health markers like anxiety and depression. Exercise increases the production of endorphins and brain-derived neurotrophic factor (BDNF), which supports brain health and emotional regulation. Strength training, specifically, has been linked to improved self-efficacy, the belief that you can do hard things.
I didn’t know the science when I started.
I just knew that for one hour a day, I felt different.
Stronger.
Seen.
Alive.
And then there was the community.
Humans are wired for connection. Research consistently shows that social support is one of the strongest predictors of long-term health and resilience. But when you’ve spent your life feeling like you don’t belong, walking into a room full of people can feel like stepping onto another planet.
CrossFit changed that.
No one asked me to be perfect. No one asked me to have it all together. They just asked me to try. And when I did, they noticed. They cheered. They remembered my name. They celebrated the smallest wins.
That matters more than people realize.
Because when someone who has felt invisible is finally seen, it can change everything.
Over time, the physical changes came.
I lost 100 pounds.
I quit smoking.
I stopped those yearly hospital visits for asthma.
I rebuilt my back and learned how to move without pain, even after discovering multiple slipped discs.
But if I’m being honest, those aren’t the most important transformations.
The most important one happened inside.
CrossFit gave me the confidence to start pulling myself out of the deepest hole I had ever been in. It gave me structure when my mind felt chaotic. It gave me goals when I felt directionless. It gave me proof, over and over again, that I was capable of more than I believed.
And that belief started to spill into every part of my life.
I became a coach.
I earned my Level 1 in 2016, and today I’m on the waitlist for my Level 4. I want to stand on seminar staff one day, not because of a title, but because I want to give back what was given to me. I want to reach the people who walk in the door carrying invisible weight. I want to show them what’s possible.
Because CrossFit doesn’t just build better athletes.
It builds better humans.
My life outside the gym is not perfect. Far from it.
My son, Trey, was diagnosed with autism at 7. My other son, Jaxon, struggles with his weight and mental health. My husband is an Afghanistan war veteran living with PTSD. I have complex PTSD.
We are, by many definitions, a family that has been through it.
But here’s the difference now:
We are not stuck.
We are moving forward.
Together.
CrossFit didn’t erase our struggles. It didn’t magically fix trauma or pain. But it gave us tools. It gave us a place to channel stress, to build resilience, to find moments of joy in the middle of hard seasons.
It taught us discipline. It taught us consistency. It taught us that progress is built one rep, one day, one decision at a time.
And maybe most importantly, it taught us hope.
There’s a version of me from 12 years ago who would not recognize the life I’m living now.
She would see me showing up, leading classes, chasing goals that once felt impossible, and she would be in awe.
But the truth is, I’m in awe of her.
Because she did the hardest part.
She didn’t give up.
She took the first step into a gym when everything in her told her to stay hidden. She kept going when it was uncomfortable, when it was hard, when it felt easier to quit.
She fought.
And now I get to live because of that fight.
CrossFit saved my life.
Not in a single moment, but in thousands of small ones.
In early mornings and late nights.
In missed lifts and personal records.
In high-fives, fist bumps, and quiet encouragement.
In the realization that I am not broken. I am rebuilding.
So I will keep showing up.
I will keep coaching.
I will keep chasing my Level 4.
And I will keep screaming from the rooftops, to anyone who will listen:
CrossFit saves lives.
Because it saved mine.
