Latest news with #APhysicalEducation
Atlantic
05-07-2025
- Lifestyle
- Atlantic
What Moving Your Body Can Mean
This is an edition of The Wonder Reader, a newsletter in which our editors recommend a set of stories to spark your curiosity and fill you with delight. Sign up here to get it every Saturday morning. Although exercise has clear benefits for both physical and mental health, for many people, 'those are side effects of the aesthetic goal,' Xochitl Gonzalez wrote in 2023. People who grew up equating working out with trying to lose weight may ultimately need to find a new form of movement or a new community to rewire their brain's associations. For Xochitl, it was running with her dog—and sometimes doing SoulCycle. For my colleague Julie Beck, it was weight lifting. For others, it's a group fitness class. Finding a form of movement that works for you can make you feel better in your body than you thought you could. 'It turned out that picking up something heavy for a few sets of five reps, sitting down half the workout, and then going home and eating a big sloppy burger did far more to make me feel comfortable in my body than gasping my way through endless burpees and rewarding myself with a salad ever did,' Julie writes. Today's newsletter explores movement and why we really do it. On Movement The Paradox of Hard Work By Alex Hutchinson Why do people enjoy doing difficult things? Read the article. The Feminine Pursuit of Swoleness By Julie Beck Casey Johnston's new book, A Physical Education, considers how weight lifting can help you unlearn diet culture. Read the article. In the Age of Ozempic, What's the Point of Working Out? By Xochitl Gonzalez The idea that we exercise to get thin may be more dangerous than ever. Still Curious? Inside the exclusive, obsessive, surprisingly litigious world of luxury fitness: How Tracy Anderson built an exercise empire A ridiculous, perfect way to make friends: Group fitness classes aren't just about exercise. Other Diversions Alexandra Petri on what the Founders wanted The Ciceronian secret to happiness That dropped call with customer service? It was on purpose. P.S. I asked readers to share a photo of something that sparks their sense of awe in the world. Chris Spoeneman, 65, from Ponte Vedra, Florida, shared this photo from his and his wife's 'bucket-list trip to the South Island of New Zealand (otherworldly!!) and Australia. This was taken while hiking the Ben Lomond Track … The hike was somewhat strenuous but the views just blew me away,' he writes, including this one—'which I dubbed the most beautiful outhouse on Earth!'
Atlantic
04-07-2025
- Entertainment
- Atlantic
A Philosophy That Sees ‘Women as Doers'
This is an edition of the Books Briefing, our editors' weekly guide to the best in books. Sign up for it here. When a woman's clothes constrict her movement, squeezing her into unforgiving shapes, or her exercise regime is a punishing ordeal meant to winnow her down to the smallest possible size, the result is all too often an alienation from her body. This week, we published two book reviews that offer a different way to think about the physical self—one that replaces an obsession over surface appeal with an emphasis on functionality. First, here are four new stories from The Atlantic 's books section: My colleague Julie Beck's essay on Casey Johnston's new ode to weight lifting argues for seeing your body as a working object, rather than an enemy to be subdued; so does Julia Turner's article about Elizabeth Evitts Dickinson's new biography of the fashion designer Claire McCardell. This philosophy might seem, to some, like wishful thinking: Narrow standards of beauty, whether they dictate body size or one's fashion sense, remain powerful in many settings. But Johnston's memoir of her journey toward strength training describes how, as she built muscle, she also began rejecting a deeply ingrained internal voice warning her against gaining a single pound. Beck, who describes trading in punishing turns on the elliptical for lifting, writes that the decision transformed her relationship to her body. As she notes, lifting 'builds up instead of whittling away; it favors function over aesthetics'; strength training has changed the way she walks, erased nagging pains, and allowed her to lift her carry-on into the overhead bin on airplanes with ease. Fashion, too, has tended to prioritize appearances over practicality—skin-baring cuts when long sleeves might be more appropriate for the weather, high heels that are impossible to walk in—to the detriment of women's well-being. In her essay on Dickinson's Claire McCardell, Turner writes that the designer 'hated being uncomfortable,' and worked to design clothes that people could actually live in. (She is credited with adding pockets to women's clothes and moving hard-to-reach zippers to the sides of dresses.) As Turner argues, McCardell 'saw women as doers, and designed accordingly.' Perhaps, Turner suggests, we should think of fashion less as an art and more as a kind of industrial design: practical and user-friendly, rather than beautiful to look at. Aesthetics aren't irrelevant—style and sartorial creativity can be freeing and self-expressive—but these books refreshingly propose that we value our bodies for what they can do, not how they appear. The Feminine Pursuit of Swoleness By Julie Beck Casey Johnston's new book, A Physical Education, considers how weight lifting can help you unlearn diet culture. What to Read Be Ready When the Luck Happens, by Ina Garten A lounge chair beside a pool in Florida, where I was vacationing with my family last winter, was the perfect place to devour Garten's celebration of luxury, good food, and togetherness. This memoir is a record of a life spent prioritizing adventure over prudence, indulgence over temperance. Garten buys a store in a town she's never visited, purchases a beautiful house she can barely afford, and wishes her husband well as he takes a job in Hong Kong while she stays behind. Her brio pays off, of course: That food shop was a success, and she went on to write more than a dozen cookbooks, become a Food Network star, and make pavlova with Taylor Swift. The book is escapist in the way that good, breezy reads often are. It was also, for me, inspiring: Be Ready When the Luck Happens gave me a bit of permission to imagine what I would do if I were the sort of person who embraces possibility the way Garten does. As I basked in the pleasant winter sunshine, I found myself thinking, What if we move to Florida, or to Southern California, or some other place where it's warm in January? I haven't followed through—vacation fantasies have a way of fading as soon as you get back to reality. But I was invigorated by imagining that I might. — Eleanor Barkhorn Out Next Week 📚 A Marriage at Sea, by Sophie Elmhirst 📚 Becoming Baba, by Aymann Ismail 📚 Bring the House Down, by Charlotte Runcie Your Weekend Read The Bad Bunny Video That Captures the Cost of Gentrification By Valerie Trapp One of the effects of gentrification, Bad Bunny proposes, is silence. Throughout the DTMF album, Bad Bunny laments how many Puerto Ricans have been forced to leave the island amid financial struggles and environmental disasters such as Hurricane Maria; this is most notable on 'Lo Que Le Pasó a Hawaii,' in which he notes that 'no one here wanted to leave, and those who left dream of returning.' (As of 2018, more Puerto Ricans live outside Puerto Rico than on the island; the same is true of Native Hawaiians and Palestinians in their respective lands.) The DTMF short film makes their absence palpable. 'Did you hear that? That music!' the old man says to Concho, when a red sedan drives by their front porch playing reggaeton (Bad Bunny's 'Eoo'). The old man is moved. 'You barely see that anymore,' he says of the car moseying past. 'I miss hearing the young people hanging out, the motorcycles—the sound of the neighborhood.' Señor and Concho, it seems, live in a community that has turned its volume down, now that most of its Puerto Rican inhabitants have left.
Yahoo
03-07-2025
- Entertainment
- Yahoo
The Feminine Pursuit of Swoleness
The Atlantic Daily, a newsletter that guides you through the biggest stories of the day, helps you discover new ideas, and recommends the best in culture. Sign up for it here. You see it everywhere: A narrative of progress in two snapshots—before and after—that leaves the viewer to imagine what came in between. On the left, a body whose inhabitant is unhappy with it in some way. On the right, the same body but different, and—you're meant to understand—better. On diet culture's greatest-hits album, the 'before and after' is the lead single, an earworm that's hard to get out of your mind. Even when it's not being used explicitly to sell something (a meal regimen, a workout program), this diptych carries a promise that through the application of effort, you too can chisel yourself into a (supposedly) more appealing shape, which usually, but not always, means a smaller one. Casey Johnston's new book, A Physical Education, tells a before-and-after story, too—one not of shrinkage but of growth, physical and otherwise. Johnston traces her journey from a life of joyless distance running, which she saw as 'taking out bigger and bigger cardio loans to buy myself more calories,' to the revelation of weight lifting. Her book incorporates memoir, science writing, and cultural critique, offering a technical breakdown of the effects of Johnston's time in the gym, as well as condemnations of diet culture's scams and hucksters. The book is not a how-to, but more of a why-to: Strength training, in Johnston's telling, reframes both body and mind. Before lifting, 'I knew all the contours of treating myself like a deceitful degenerate, against whom I must maintain constant vigilance,' she writes. After lifting, 'all of the parts of myself that had been fighting each other' had become 'united in the holy cause of getting strong as hell.' Johnston has been evangelizing and explaining weight lifting online for years, first with her 'Ask a Swole Woman' online column and then with her independent newsletter, She's a Beast, along with a beginner's lifting-training guide, Liftoff: Couch to Barbell. Like any hobby, weight lifting generates plenty of online material, but much of it is aimed at an audience that already knows its way around a squat rack. Johnston stands out for her attunement to the needs and anxieties of true beginners—particularly those who are women, for whom pumping iron often requires a certain amount of unlearning. Even after the rise of body positivity, women are still frequently confronted with unsolicited promotion for crash diets, told that 'nothing tastes as good as skinny feels,' and sold what Johnston calls 'busywork bullshit' exercises—'Target love handles with these 10 moves'; '20 minutes to tone your arms'; etc.—designed to spot-treat so-called problem areas. Social media has supercharged the delivery of these messages; though there are plenty of supportive communities online, for every body-positive influencer, there seems to be another pushing food restriction and punishing workouts. The TikTok trend of 'girl dinner' suggests that eating nothing but a plate of cheese cubes and almonds is an adorably feminine quirk rather than a repackaged eating disorder. [Read: The body-positivity movement is over] Johnston writes that since the age of 12, she'd been worrying about her weight, having internalized the message that 'either I was small enough (and always getting smaller), or I was a disappointment.' This is the message that fueled my workouts for the longest time, too—that the point of exercise was weight loss or, at the very least, staving off weight gain. Working out was a chore or—even worse—torturous penance for failing to become the impossible ever-shrinking woman. It wasn't supposed to feel good; it definitely wasn't fun. After berating myself to go to the gym in the first place, I would pedal away on the elliptical for 30 to 40 minutes until I tasted blood in the back of my throat (seems fine and normal), and then perform a grab bag of whatever calisthenics might plausibly target my core, hating every second of it. None of this changed the fact that I would get winded walking up a flight of stairs, or nearly buckle under the weight of my carry-on while hoisting it into an airplane's overhead bin. Eventually, seeking a less resentful relationship with exercise and my body, I dove into martial arts for several years, then decided to give weight lifting a try. Johnston's writing was a guide for me; I loosely followed her Liftoff program when I was getting started, and have been a regular reader of her newsletter. It turned out that picking up something heavy for a few sets of five reps, sitting down half the workout, and then going home and eating a big sloppy burger did far more to make me feel comfortable in my body than gasping my way through endless burpees and rewarding myself with a salad ever did. Johnston's assertion that lifting 'completely changed how I think and feel about the world and myself and everything' sounds like another of the fitness industry's wild overpromises. But I know what she means. I, too, have found that lifting can transform the way you relate to your body. First and foremost, Johnston explains, it inverts what women are still too-often told about the goal of exercise. It builds up instead of whittling away; it favors function over aesthetics. Weight lifting makes you better at more than just lifting weights. Johnston writes about struggling with a 40-pound bag of cat litter before she began lifting; now she simply picks it up and carries it into her apartment. As I added weight to the barbell, I felt my muscles stabilize; the neck and back pain from my butt-sitting job faded; I stopped needing help with my overstuffed suitcases; and I even started walking differently—no longer flinging my skeleton around, but smoothly engaging actual muscles. When I do cardio, running is easier too. [Read: The Protein Madness Is Just Getting Started] Here's another thing: You gotta eat. It won't work if you don't. When Johnston crunched the numbers on how many calories her body would need to build muscle, she discovered that the 1,200-calorie diet she'd been living on for years was not going to cut it. For the lifting to do anything, she'd need to eat more. Like, a lot more. Protein, especially. Going from a mindset of restriction to making sure that she was eating enough shifted how Johnston felt in her body. She had more energy; she was no longer constantly cold. She felt like 'a big, beautiful horse.' As for me, before lifting, I had never so viscerally felt the obvious truth that food is fuel, that what and how much I eat shapes what my body can do and how it feels. Yet even these discoveries cannot always overcome the influence of diet culture. When Johnston starts to allow herself more calories, at first she fears 'the worst fate that could befall a woman who bravely ate more: gaining three, or even five, pounds.' The most heartbreaking scene in the book illustrates how difficult it can be to put your weapons down after a lifetime of treating your body like the enemy. Johnston tries to spread the good word of weight lifting to her mother, whom she describes as a perpetual dieter and a practiced commentator on any fluctuations in Johnston's weight. It doesn't go well. After they take a frustrating trip to the gym together, Johnston asks, 'What is it you're so afraid of?' Her mom replies that she doesn't want to become 'one of those fat old women' whom 'no one likes.' 'I can think of lots of fat old women that many people love,' Johnston tries. 'But they wouldn't love me.' That's the well I think so many of us are still trying to climb out of: the belief that a woman's worth always lies in her desirability, that desirability takes only one shape, and that if she doesn't live up to the impossible standard, she should at least be working apologetically toward correcting that. Even if you think you've made it out, the foot soldiers of diet culture are always looking to pull you back in. I've followed some lifting-related accounts on Instagram; the algorithm seems to have interpreted that as free rein to bombard me with reels of 'weight-loss journeys,' 'bodyweight exercises for hot girlies,' and the like. Every other celebrity seems to be on Ozempic now, and apparently, 'thin is in' again. I admit I spiraled a little when I went up a size in all my clothes, even though I'd gotten bigger on purpose. [Rebecca Johns: A diet writer's regrets] Lifting culture, too, has its trapdoors back into disordered thinking. As Lauren Michele Jackson points out in her review of A Physical Education for The New Yorker, the idea that focusing on strength frees you from being preoccupied with looks is naive. Weight lifting can come with its own set of metrics and obsessions: Eating enough protein and hitting your macros can replace calorie restriction; instead of fixating on thinness, perhaps now you want a juicy ass or rippling biceps. The practice can be fraught in a different way for men, who are told that maximal swoleness is their optimal form. The same activity can be a key or a cage, depending on your point of view. But weight lifting has stuck, for me and I think for Johnston, because it can also change the way one thinks about achievement. It serves as a pretty good metaphor for a balanced approach to striving that eschews both the Lean In–girlboss hustle and its 'I don't dream of labor' anti-ambition backlash. Not running until your tank is empty and then running some more, but rather fueling yourself enough to push just a bit further than you have before. Letting the gains accumulate slowly, a little more weight at a time. And most important, learning that rest is part of the rhythm of progress. You punctuate your workouts with full days off. You do your reps, and then you just sit there for a couple of minutes. You work, and then you recover. While I'm resting, I often eat sour candies out of a fanny pack. I saw some powerlifters on Instagram eating candy before tackling a big lift—the idea being that the quick-metabolizing sugary carbs give you a little boost of energy. I don't care if this is scientifically sound. (I'm serious, don't email me.) I'm more excited to work out when I know that it's also my candy time. The gym has morphed from a torture chamber to a place of challenge, effort, rest, and pleasure, all of which, it turns out, can coexist. And failure is part of the mix, too. As Johnston writes, 'Building strength is about pressing steadily upward on one's current limits'; if you're doing it right, your attempts will sometimes exceed your ability. That's how you know you're challenging yourself enough. Sometimes failure involves gassing out on an attempt to squat heavier than you have ever squatted, and sometimes it's more like slipping on the banana peel of an old, unhealthy thought pattern. Both will knock you on your ass for a bit. But that's part of it. 'Progress could be about going backward, letting go,' Johnston writes. 'Before and after' images are only snapshots. Outside the frame, the body, and the self, keep evolving. Article originally published at The Atlantic
Atlantic
03-07-2025
- Entertainment
- Atlantic
The Feminine Pursuit of Swoleness
You see it everywhere: A narrative of progress in two snapshots—before and after—that leaves the viewer to imagine what came in between. On the left, a body whose inhabitant is unhappy with it in some way. On the right, the same body but different, and—you're meant to understand—better. On diet culture's greatest-hits album, the 'before and after' is the lead single, an earworm that's hard to get out of your mind. Even when it's not being used explicitly to sell something (a meal regimen, a workout program), this diptych carries a promise that through the application of effort, you too can chisel yourself into a (supposedly) more appealing shape, which usually, but not always, means a smaller one. Casey Johnston's new book, A Physical Education, tells a before-and-after story, too—one not of shrinkage but of growth, physical and otherwise. Johnston traces her journey from a life of joyless distance running, which she saw as 'taking out bigger and bigger cardio loans to buy myself more calories,' to the revelation of weight lifting. Her book incorporates memoir, science writing, and cultural critique, offering a technical breakdown of the effects of Johnston's time in the gym, as well as condemnations of diet culture's scams and hucksters. The book is not a how-to, but more of a why-to: Strength training, in Johnston's telling, reframes both body and mind. Before lifting, 'I knew all the contours of treating myself like a deceitful degenerate, against whom I must maintain constant vigilance,' she writes. After lifting, 'all of the parts of myself that had been fighting each other' had become 'united in the holy cause of getting strong as hell.' Johnston has been evangelizing and explaining weight lifting online for years, first with her 'Ask a Swole Woman' online column and then with her independent newsletter, She's a Beast, along with a beginner's lifting-training guide, Liftoff: Couch to Barbell. Like any hobby, weight lifting generates plenty of online material, but much of it is aimed at an audience that already knows its way around a squat rack. Johnston stands out for her attunement to the needs and anxieties of true beginners—particularly those who are women, for whom pumping iron often requires a certain amount of unlearning. Even after the rise of body positivity, women are still frequently confronted with unsolicited promotion for crash diets, told that 'nothing tastes as good as skinny feels,' and sold what Johnston calls 'busywork bullshit' exercises—'Target love handles with these 10 moves'; '20 minutes to tone your arms'; etc.—designed to spot-treat so-called problem areas. Social media has supercharged the delivery of these messages; though there are plenty of supportive communities online, for every body-positive influencer, there seems to be another pushing food restriction and punishing workouts. The TikTok trend of 'girl dinner ' suggests that eating nothing but a plate of cheese cubes and almonds is an adorably feminine quirk rather than a repackaged eating disorder. Johnston writes that since the age of 12, she'd been worrying about her weight, having internalized the message that 'either I was small enough (and always getting smaller), or I was a disappointment.' This is the message that fueled my workouts for the longest time, too—that the point of exercise was weight loss or, at the very least, staving off weight gain. Working out was a chore or—even worse—torturous penance for failing to become the impossible ever-shrinking woman. It wasn't supposed to feel good; it definitely wasn't fun. After berating myself to go to the gym in the first place, I would pedal away on the elliptical for 30 to 40 minutes until I tasted blood in the back of my throat (seems fine and normal), and then perform a grab bag of whatever calisthenics might plausibly target my core, hating every second of it. None of this changed the fact that I would get winded walking up a flight of stairs, or nearly buckle under the weight of my carry-on while hoisting it into an airplane's overhead bin. Eventually, seeking a less resentful relationship with exercise and my body, I dove into martial arts for several years, then decided to give weight lifting a try. Johnston's writing was a guide for me; I loosely followed her Liftoff program when I was getting started, and have been a regular reader of her newsletter. It turned out that picking up something heavy for a few sets of five reps, sitting down half the workout, and then going home and eating a big sloppy burger did far more to make me feel comfortable in my body than gasping my way through endless burpees and rewarding myself with a salad ever did. Johnston's assertion that lifting 'completely changed how I think and feel about the world and myself and everything' sounds like another of the fitness industry's wild overpromises. But I know what she means. I, too, have found that lifting can transform the way you relate to your body. First and foremost, Johnston explains, it inverts what women are still too-often told about the goal of exercise. It builds up instead of whittling away; it favors function over aesthetics. Weight lifting makes you better at more than just lifting weights. Johnston writes about struggling with a 40-pound bag of cat litter before she began lifting; now she simply picks it up and carries it into her apartment. As I added weight to the barbell, I felt my muscles stabilize; the neck and back pain from my butt-sitting job faded; I stopped needing help with my overstuffed suitcases; and I even started walking differently—no longer flinging my skeleton around, but smoothly engaging actual muscles. When I do cardio, running is easier too. Here's another thing: You gotta eat. It won't work if you don't. When Johnston crunched the numbers on how many calories her body would need to build muscle, she discovered that the 1,200-calorie diet she'd been living on for years was not going to cut it. For the lifting to do anything, she'd need to eat more. Like, a lot more. Protein, especially. Going from a mindset of restriction to making sure that she was eating enough shifted how Johnston felt in her body. She had more energy; she was no longer constantly cold. She felt like 'a big, beautiful horse.' As for me, before lifting, I had never so viscerally felt the obvious truth that food is fuel, that what and how much I eat shapes what my body can do and how it feels. Yet even these discoveries cannot always overcome the influence of diet culture. When Johnston starts to allow herself more calories, at first she fears 'the worst fate that could befall a woman who bravely ate more: gaining three, or even five, pounds.' The most heartbreaking scene in the book illustrates how difficult it can be to put your weapons down after a lifetime of treating your body like the enemy. Johnston tries to spread the good word of weight lifting to her mother, whom she describes as a perpetual dieter and a practiced commentator on any fluctuations in Johnston's weight. It doesn't go well. After they take a frustrating trip to the gym together, Johnston asks, 'What is it you're so afraid of?' Her mom replies that she doesn't want to become 'one of those fat old women' whom 'no one likes.' 'I can think of lots of fat old women that many people love,' Johnston tries. 'But they wouldn't love me.' That's the well I think so many of us are still trying to climb out of: the belief that a woman's worth always lies in her desirability, that desirability takes only one shape, and that if she doesn't live up to the impossible standard, she should at least be working apologetically toward correcting that. Even if you think you've made it out, the foot soldiers of diet culture are always looking to pull you back in. I've followed some lifting-related accounts on Instagram; the algorithm seems to have interpreted that as free rein to bombard me with reels of 'weight-loss journeys,' 'bodyweight exercises for hot girlies,' and the like. Every other celebrity seems to be on Ozempic now, and apparently, ' thin is in ' again. I admit I spiraled a little when I went up a size in all my clothes, even though I'd gotten bigger on purpose. Rebecca Johns: A diet writer's regrets Lifting culture, too, has its trapdoors back into disordered thinking. As Lauren Michele Jackson points out in her review of A Physical Education for The New Yorker, the idea that focusing on strength frees you from being preoccupied with looks is naive. Weight lifting can come with its own set of metrics and obsessions: Eating enough protein and hitting your macros can replace calorie restriction; instead of fixating on thinness, perhaps now you want a juicy ass or rippling biceps. The practice can be fraught in a different way for men, who are told that maximal swoleness is their optimal form. The same activity can be a key or a cage, depending on your point of view. But weight lifting has stuck, for me and I think for Johnston, because it can also change the way one thinks about achievement. It serves as a pretty good metaphor for a balanced approach to striving that eschews both the Lean In –girlboss hustle and its ' I don't dream of labor ' anti-ambition backlash. Not running until your tank is empty and then running some more, but rather fueling yourself enough to push just a bit further than you have before. Letting the gains accumulate slowly, a little more weight at a time. And most important, learning that rest is part of the rhythm of progress. You punctuate your workouts with full days off. You do your reps, and then you just sit there for a couple of minutes. You work, and then you recover. While I'm resting, I often eat sour candies out of a fanny pack. I saw some powerlifters on Instagram eating candy before tackling a big lift—the idea being that the quick-metabolizing sugary carbs give you a little boost of energy. I don't care if this is scientifically sound. (I'm serious, don't email me.) I'm more excited to work out when I know that it's also my candy time. The gym has morphed from a torture chamber to a place of challenge, effort, rest, and pleasure, all of which, it turns out, can coexist. And failure is part of the mix, too. As Johnston writes, 'Building strength is about pressing steadily upward on one's current limits'; if you're doing it right, your attempts will sometimes exceed your ability. That's how you know you're challenging yourself enough. Sometimes failure involves gassing out on an attempt to squat heavier than you have ever squatted, and sometimes it's more like slipping on the banana peel of an old, unhealthy thought pattern. Both will knock you on your ass for a bit. But that's part of it. 'Progress could be about going backward, letting go,' Johnston writes. 'Before and after' images are only snapshots. Outside the frame, the body, and the self, keep evolving.
Vox
17-06-2025
- Health
- Vox
How America's ideal woman got jacked
is a senior correspondent on the Culture team for Vox, where since 2016 she has covered books, publishing, gender, celebrity analysis, and theater. A lot of people are getting jacked these days, and it's not just who you would think. For men, muscles have always been a symbol of brute strength and power. In our current era, that's manifesting in their desire to get as chiseled as possible with a strict regimen of lifting and proteinmaxxing. But lately, muscles have also become something of a cultural battleground for women — at a time when beauty standards are dramatically in flux. The feminine body type of the moment shifts with time, from curvy to skinny and back again, but rarely, if ever, is America's ideal woman overtly strong. For most of my (millennial) life, women were instructed never to lift weights lest they become 'bulky' (the horror!) but to do cardio instead, so that they would burn calories. For most of my (millennial) life, women were instructed never to lift weights lest they become 'bulky' (the horror!). Three new books reckon with what it means for women to, at long last, begin to embrace strength. Casey Johnston's A Physical Education is a memoir exploring Johnston's journey from a thinness-obsessed runner to an empowered weight lifter. In How to Be Well, Amy Larocca explores the wellness imperative that pushes so many women today to relentlessly optimize their health. And in On Muscle, Bonnie Tsui explores the cultural symbolism of muscles and how they provide a way for us to think about who is allowed to be strong, and who we demand be weak. Strength training is, in theory, an empowering alternative to the pursuit of thinness. But what happens if all our old body neuroses from the skin-and-bone days transfers right on over to the new well-muscled ideal? How the thin woman became the well (and still thin) woman There is always a type of woman you are supposed to be, a hegemonic ideal who hovers just out of reach, impossible to ever quite achieve. While America's feminine ideals shift a little, writes Larocca in How to Be Well, these ideal women always have a few basic things in common: 'They are always very thin and they do not complain, no matter how many responsibilities are added to their list.' In the last 15 years, however, the ideal woman also became the 'well' woman, Larocca writes. This is a woman who, in addition to being thin, has relentlessly optimized her health: She is pure of microplastics and pesticides, she cold plunges and owns crystals, and her skin and body glow golden with utter, unimpregnable well-being. Vox Culture Culture reflects society. Get our best explainers on everything from money to entertainment to what everyone is talking about online. Email (required) Sign Up By submitting your email, you agree to our Terms and Privacy Notice . This site is protected by reCAPTCHA and the Google Privacy Policy and Terms of Service apply. The ideal American woman has not always been well. For a long time, she was just skinny. 'Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels,' said Kate Moss in the heroin-chic '90s, espousing a sentiment that would carry through to the virulently anti-fat 2000s. In that era, women exercised not in order to be well, but, explicitly and vocally, to be thin. In the 2010s, the body ideal began to shift just a little. As the Kardashians began their long cultural dominance, pop culture began to decide that it was better to have a body with curves than to be rail thin. At the same time, the success of body positive activism started to mainstream the intoxicating idea that it might be possible to like your body even if it didn't look like the body of a supermodel. Marketers began to update their language accordingly. The ideal American woman has not always been well. For a long time, she was just skinny. By the mid-2010s, the body ideal for women was more or less as follows: You still had to be thin, but maybe not quite as thin as Kate Moss. As penance, however, you were no longer allowed to talk about how thin you wanted to be. 'It sometimes feels,' remarks Larocca, 'as if a simple replace-all function has been applied to the entire beauty marketing machine: Alexa, find 'skinny' and replace all with 'strong'; find 'beauty' and replace all with 'glow.'' Wellness-as-health-as-beauty got more popular in 2016, after the first election of Donald Trump sent affluent liberals searching for things they could control in an ever-more chaotic world. In 2020, the pandemic came and brought the new paradigm to everyone. Now, wellness was a way of enacting control over one's body in a time that was demonstrating very clearly that we humans could control very little. Johnston found her way to strength training early in the transition of beauty culture to wellness culture, in 2014. In some ways, her journey mirrored the culture's larger shift in rhetoric. She admits she first got interested in weight lifting because of its aesthetic promises — it looked like a fun way to get hot that didn't involve starving and sprinting herself into a calorie deficit, as she had been doing since college. Over time, however, she began to take satisfaction in being strong for its own sake. 'I felt the differences that came from investing in strength training before I really understood them,' she writes. 'I was so used to distrusting myself, and that distrust included my body. Where did that come from?' Johnston wasn't alone. In 2024, weight-lifting was the fastest-growing sport among American women. Millions of women are trying to up their protein intake and talking about their weight-lifting journeys. At a recent work meeting I attended, four women swapped protein tips while the one man in attendance stared in confusion. 'Everyone's getting yoked,' he said. Who gets to have muscles? Part of why so many women are strength training now is all of those new scientific studies demonstrating how important it is for women. But muscles aren't just about health, in the same way that wellness isn't either. 'Strength as a proxy for worthiness, ability, or success has interesting legs,' writes Tsui in On Muscle. This has historically applied to men. Tsui cites the many rituals of ancient cultures that involve lifting heavy things to prove one's manhood or political strength. In the modern world, Tsui describes a venture capitalist who prefers to invest his money with founders who are also athletes, on the grounds that they 'understand how to push themselves past the point of pain.' If strength is a proxy for male worthiness, American culture tends to get nervous when it shows up in unexpected places. 'When we say someone is too strong or too muscular,' writes Tsui, 'it's often a comment on what we permit that person to be in society.' No woman is safe from being told that she is 'too muscular,' but some women are more likely to be targeted with that accusation than others. Dominant Black women athletes like Serena Williams and Simone Biles frequently face just such criticism, which ballet star Misty Copeland once described as 'code language for your skin is wrong.' The moral panic over trans women athletes, too, is built around the idea that trans women are too strong to be truly feminine. 'When a woman is deemed too muscular,' writes Tsui, 'it's often because her strength is perceived as taking away from someone else, or that her strength is somehow unseemly, unfair, or unnatural.' Instead, physical strength is seen as the natural property of men — specifically, conservative men. One 2023 study found that observers tend to assume that men with prominent upper body strength are right-wing. The stereotype might have emerged in part because we tend to see muscles as bodily and hence anti-intellectual, and conservatives tend to distrust intellectual elites. The binary follows a neat map of associations embedded below the level of conscious thought. Weight-lifting makes you strong, masculine, bodily, meatheaded, conservative. Cardio makes you small, feminine, intellectual, wiry, liberal. In real life, cardio and weight training both affect body shapes in strange and unpredictable ways, and they don't say anything about our political or intellectual goals. On the level of the symbol, though, the associations are strong — which is part of why it's so striking to see so many women start lifting weights. If strength among men codes as conservative, among women it codes as subversive, feminist, and a rejection of the male gaze. As weight lifting for women has become more mainstream, however, promoters have had to begin filing away at that last association. Perhaps that's part of why women's magazine articles urging women to strength train always come with an anxious assurance that, despite popular belief, weight training won't make you bulky and unfeminine. The optimization trap In A Physical Education, Johnston writes with relish about eating more to gain muscle mass. 'I had never deliberately gained weight before in my entire life,' she writes. Yet once she increases her daily calorie budget and muscle begins to pile on, she likes what she sees in the mirror: 'a god, radiant like a big, beautiful horse.' Body positivity or no, Johnston spends a surprising amount of time dwelling on how as she lifted more, her pants 'grew ever so slightly tighter in the legs and hips but fell away at the waist.' She writes extensively about how much more efficient weight lifting is at shrinking the waistline than cardio is, and she tracks cardios and macros with meticulous precision. Intuitive eating, or the process of eating what feels good to your body, she dismisses as 'circular doublespeak'; she's a woman who wants her every Cup Noodles logged and its nutritional content fully analyzed. In the bodybuilding world, food tracking is common and, at the elite level, necessary. Still, there's a tight parallel between Johnston's obsessive counting and Larocca's well woman, who follows her Oura sleep score with sleepless vigilance and wears a continuous glucose monitor to track her blood sugar even if she doesn't have diabetes. 'It feels irresponsible to be satisfied with 'fine,'' writes Larocca, and tracking biometrics promises to show a person how to optimize well beyond 'fine.' The seductive promise of going beyond fine is at the heart of the idea of the well woman. You might be basically healthy as you are, but is that really good enough? Can you really look after your children and loved ones if your health is just fine? Will you ever be beautiful enough or thin enough or pure enough at just fine? Wellness promises to get you there, in the same way that dieting promised to get you there in 1996. Of course, dieting hasn't stayed in 1996. It's currently rushing back into the mainstream with a vengeance. Fueled by the popularity of Ozempic, fat-shaming diet communities like SkinnyTok have begun to emerge, allowing users to share weight loss tips and 'tough love' instructions to one another to stop eating, much like the magazine voices that Johnston recalled internalizing as a college student driven to starve herself. Related The year of Ozempic bodies and Barbie Botox Strength training for women positions itself as a counterweight to communities like SkinnyTok. It's a world in which women are told in no uncertain terms that no matter what they do, they have to at least take in enough calories; a world that promises to make women bigger instead of smaller. Yet all the same, strength training does not seem to be quite enough to break the hold that the need to optimize has over us, in the same way that wellness culture didn't either. A well woman can still obsess over the pesticides and microplastics in her groceries. A woman who strength trains can still obsess over whether or not she is eating correctly. There is always a way to be absolutely correct, and it always seems to be drifting farther and farther away from us. Strength training does not seem to be quite enough to break the hold that the need to optimize has over us, in the same way that wellness culture didn't either. We are driven to politicize and optimize the muscles of our human bodies along with everything else. But our muscles can also offer us more than their symbology. In On Muscles, Tsui quotes the happiness scholar Dacher Keltner, who argues that many of our emotions are 'about' our muscles: 'Joy, for example, which often involves jumping,' he says. 'Or love, which is about embracing, postural movements. Emotions are about action.' This idea goes back to Charles Darwin, who observed in 1872 that for both humans and animals, 'under a transport of Joy or of vivid Pleasure, there is a strong tendency to various purposeless movements, and to the utterance of various sounds.' We jump and laugh and clap with delight; dogs wriggle and bark and run in circles. When we come together to express joy as a community, we dance, jumping for joy all together as one. Our joy exists in and through and in relation to the movement of our muscles. That's a basic physical fact. We can't change it, no matter how much we optimize.
