The gym was mine for another hour before the rush. The ancient AC unit hummed its steady, familiar rhythm. A fine, pale haze of chalk glowed where the first sunlight cut through the windows. The scent of raw iron and old rubber mats – that smell is home.

This is what it was. What we had. What we were. Before.

I loaded the bar with precision. The iron slid onto the sleeve, a mirror image on each side, the colored plates declaring the load. The collars snapped into place with that final, satisfying click.

Pull, halt, drop.

Four sets behind me. This was the one that mattered. I stood there staring at the bar. It wasn’t fear that held me, but respect, the quiet reverence before a sacred communion with the weight.

I found my stance, digging my feet into the ground. I brought my whole body into total unison and harmony, every cell aligned. I gripped the knurling, it bit precisely into the callused ridges of my palms. I yanked the slack out of the bar, packed the lats until my back felt like a shield, inhaled deeply.

The world narrowed to this: ground, bar, body, pull.

The weight broke from the floor.

That first moment when 405 lb surrenders to your will – there’s nothing like it. The iron doesn’t lie. It doesn’t care about your bank account; it only cares if you’re strong enough right now.

I set it down. The plates rang against the platform, a bell announcing something sacred just happened.

Ahmed, the floor manager, brought me a cup of double espresso, my intra-workout, without a word. He’d seen me pull big weight a hundred times. Just a nod of recognition between people who understand: this is the work.

The first time

More than ten years ago, I walked into my first gym in Jordan, a male club by every measure—and headed straight for the deadlifting platform.

The silence was instant. Absolute.

I didn’t look around. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t smile.

I loaded 45 lb on each side and started my ‘warm-up’. Then I kept loading. And loading. By the time I hit my intended 345 lb PR, they’d formed a circle around me. Watching

I pulled more than most of them had ever touched, men who’d never seen a woman hold a dumbbell, let alone one that could deadlift double their bodyweight.

But I wasn’t there to make a statement, shatter ceilings, or shift culture.

I came because I needed to lift in a real gym. And there wasn’t one for women.

So I took the space I needed.

The code

Back then the iron temple had its own language. You were there to work, not socialize. You offered to spot without being asked when you saw someone loading heavy. You stripped your plates when you finished, even when exhausted. Especially when exhausted. You dressed for function, not display.

There was a hierarchy, earned through years of showing up. The people who trained at 6 AM every morning for five years, who never missed, they had respect.

We had the luxury of being ordinary. Some sessions were boring. Some were brutal. Some were transcendent. All of them were private. All of them were ours.

I remember Nart, a MMA fighter. Humble, never missed a session. One morning, he loaded 305 lb on the bar for his squat, a massive PR attempt. The gym gradually went quiet. People knew. They could read the weight, see the slight tremor in his hands, recognize the ceremony.

He descended. Paused at depth. And fought his way back up, every fiber screaming.

When the bar racked, the gym erupted. Not with theatrics, but with the deep, guttural acknowledgment of warriors. A few ‘Let’s fucking go’ muttered under breath. Ahmed walked over with a bottle of water, placed it on the platform without a word

You witnessed each other’s battles. You honored the craft.

This was the temple.

This was the work.

The brotherhood

If you wanted the temple at its most sacred, you trained at 6:00 a.m., when the city was still sleeping. No crowds. No phones. Just the faithful.

We’d nod to each other walking in, that minimal acknowledgement that said, “I see you. You’re here. That matters.” Then we’d disappear into our own worlds.

I trained next to the same core group for years. We didn’t speak much. But we knew each other intimately through the iron. A knowledge that came from presence, from years of peripheral awareness, from caring enough to notice.

Monday. International chest day. Four of us hammering dumbbells.

Yassin, a 49-year-old retired bodybuilder with the body of a Greek god, sat on the bench after a hard set, totally destroyed, yet looking more alive than ever. He turned, catching my eye as I dropped the weights on each side.

“What is it, Lana? This hunger with no name. This need to push.”

“You mean why we’re doing this to ourselves? Locking ourselves up in this dingy torture cell?” Addisu chuckled, our young Kenyan brother, strong and formidable, with the heart of a twelve-year-old. He wiped sweat off his arms and shoulders.

“You know what I think, Yassin? This isn’t about the gym or the iron. It’s an integral part of who we are. A need to express something deep.” I paused. “In a different century, we might have been warriors. Samurai. Fighters. In this modern time, the gym is the only place where that kind of extremity is allowed. Where it’s understood. Where it’s sacred.”

I looked at their faces. No one spoke. The understanding passed between us without words.

We didn’t have a word for it. We still don’t. But we knew it was there, in the weight, in the hunger, in the need to push past what should break us.

Whatever it was – warrior, fighter, something with no name in this soft century, we all carried it.

And the iron was the only place it could breathe.