'I Was Into Bodybuilding—Until An Accident Left Me Paralyzed'

From Women's Health

In July of 2017, when I was 21 years old, I broke my back when a loaded Smith machine bar fell on me during a set of squats at the gym. I was rushed to the hospital and into emergency surgery and was left paralyzed from the waist down. From that moment forward, I became a full-time wheelchair user.

Up until that day, I had been super into bodybuilding. I hit the gym five or six days a week to lift weights, I meal prepped all my food—all of it. I loved working out, but my goals were primarily aesthetic—and I was super disciplined about sticking to my routine in order to achieve them.

When my accident happened, everything changed. After that initial surgery, I spent four months in the hospital and then another one in rehabilitation. My fitness routine as I knew it was gone, just like that. And without it, my life felt like chaos.

During my time in the hospital and rehab, my caretakers tried to get me back into the gym, but I just couldn't do it. Throughout the process, I was diagnosed with depression and PTSD. I thought I'd just have to let that part of me—the one who went to the gym and loved fitness—go forever because of my disability.

I finally went home, just in time for my family to move to a new town. Soon after, my dad told me we were going to join the gym in our new neighborhood. No way, I thought. But I guess I was a little curious, because I listened to my dad and signed up.

In that moment, I felt this little spark of excitement. I had no idea how I was going to train; I'd never worked out in a wheelchair before—but something inside me started to shift.

Finding A New Way To Fitness

At first, I went to the gym just once or twice a week, scoping out the free weights and cable machines to see what I could use for upper-body and core workouts. I knew I'd never jump or squat again, but I could still be a healthy, fit me—just not exactly the same me I was before. Within just a month or two, I settled into a routine of three or four upper-body workouts using dumbbells and cable machines per week.

Unlike before my accident, though, I no longer focused on aesthetic goals. As a disabled woman, I knew that I wouldn't fit into the box of what typical beauty standards told me to strive for, no matter how I tried. So, I had to forget about the box entirely; I had to separate my self-worth from how my body looked or functioned; I had to love my body exactly as it was.

Another fitness-related truth that came with becoming disabled: Being strong was now more important than I could have ever imagined. I wanted to be (and now am) an independent wheelchair user, which means I need the strength to push myself around all day, lift myself into my car, and then pick up my 30-pound wheelchair with one hand to load stow it.

As a result, my training became more functional than ever, and I realized just how much what I did in my workouts impacted the rest of my life. The more I worked on my core, the more easily I could get in and out of my chair and car. The stronger I was, the freer I felt.

These days, I still do about four upper-body and core workouts every week—and try to hit all of my major muscle groups (like my shoulders, chest, and back) in each session. I focus on movements like shoulder presses, bench presses, and lat pulldowns to build as much strength as possible. No matter what I'm doing, I focus on sitting tall and engaging my core.

I still have some physical goals, too—like wanting to build my back to be more muscular. The difference is that I no longer let aesthetic goals dictate why I exercise—or take the focus off of all the other important reasons I do it.

Making Fitness More Inclusive

For so long, the world of fitness has created a single standard for women to live up to. But my experiences have taught me that you have to create your own standard.

As a disabled woman, I'm never going to have six-pack abs or run a marathon—so I let those standards go. The trouble is, until disabled-bodied women see women that look like them in the fitness industry, they'll have to continue fighting the notion that their true goal is to be able-bodied. (Disabled people tell me all the time that I'm the first fitness-focused disabled woman they've seen on social media—but there are SO many other amazing disabled women out there doing incredible things; we're just not seeing it.)

I want disabled women (and all women, for that matter) to be able to define our own individual fitness goals and standards. This way, we can exercise for the reasons that make us feel good—and do the workouts that we actually enjoy. After all, working out is about our health and well-being—not just how we look.

This is why I've recently started using my platform on Instagram (I'm @sophjbutler) to advocate for disability rights, in addition to sharing my workouts and talking about fitness.

I'm not here to shame able-bodied people for not realizing that this is an issue; I didn't think about any of this before my own injury. I am here, though, to empower able- and disabled-bodied people to reclaim what fitness is really all about—and to make it a welcoming, encouraging place. Because we all benefit from making fitness more inclusive. Only then will women no longer have to fight against harmful ideas about what their bodies should look like or be able to do—and that, to me, is where health really begins.

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