Essay: Powerlifting—The Big Three

by Grace Grocholski

“Bar go up” is how my trainer, Jon, jokingly describes the mechanics of a deadlift. And yes, on the surface, powerlifting is a simple, unglamorous sport. A sport that as a self-described runner, I hadn’t given any consideration. A year ago, I was a creature of cardiovascular endurance, set on running the Ice Age 50K ultramarathon.

The shift happened in the dead of a Wisconsin winter. Dreading the treadmill slog and procrastinating my running, I started lifting. I had been using dumbbells (lunges, shoulder presses, etc.) for a few years as a way to supplement training, but after picking up heavier weights, I fell in love with a new challenge. I enjoyed the feeling of my muscles burning during a set, not because they were depleted, but because I was breaking them down, knowing they were knitting back together stronger than before.

Pushing myself to learn the main lifts of the barbell, I studied how to squat, bench and deadlift. Eventually, I pulled out of the race, recognizing I hadn’t put in the required miles, and a few months later, joined Green Bay Strength Club, a powerlifting-friendly gym on the west side. The percussion of plates, the haze of chalk, and the sterile scent of rubber mats lend the space the air of an industrial laboratory. Inside, I become a mad scientist, obsessively testing the limits of my body. What began in my mind as a brief detour from running became a sole focus, and in time, turned into training that far from dread, gave me purpose during the coldest months of the year.

Now, I stand at my first powerlifting meet. The nerves are different from the ones I felt on the start line of races. Those were about how long I could endure, while these are about how much I can overcome. I step up to the squat rack, the faces of the judges and spectators blurring beyond the bar. I center myself beneath it, as I’ve practiced hundreds of times. I breathe deep into my belly and brace my core against my lifting belt. Then, from the soles of my feet all the way up my spine, I push.

Squat
Powerlifting centers on “the big three”: squat, bench, and deadlift. You get three attempts at each, increasing in weight each time and chasing the white light of a successful lift. You are trying to achieve the highest total, measured in kilograms. With a positive, uplifting community though, the real wins come in the form of a good lift, the Personal Record (PR), and the simple act of showing up.

When I first learned to squat, I felt exposed. The knurling (a fun term for the textured part of a barbell, designed to aid in grip) bit into my traps and sinking down felt clumsy. That feeling of incompetence stops many people, especially women, from ever starting.

When I first learned to squat, I felt exposed. The knurling (a fun term for the textured part of a barbell, designed to aid in grip) bit into my traps and sinking down felt clumsy. That feeling of incompetence stops many people, especially women, from ever starting.

At the gym, Jon gradually moved me away from lighter reps of 10 and toward heavy singles. Standing in the rack with 275 pounds on my back, I realized the squat is the ultimate rejection of the circus-act. When you are grinding through a max effort, you aren’t performing for anyone, you are trying to push back on gravity. You are trying to survive. Sandwina carried the weight as a spectacle so I could carry it for sport.

I failed my third squat attempt, which was disappointing. I had a hard time shaking that failure for the rest of the meet. But seeing other athletes, even those more experienced than me, fail a lift or two allowed me to see that the risk of failure is baked into the game. Every lift is a lesson.

Bench
The bench press is a calculated negotiation of form and technique. It’s where I confronted the myth of a woman’s “weak upper body”. As early as the 1920s, women were marketed dieting plans to “reduce”, and aerobic workouts to “tone”. Fitness throughout the decades was largely understood to be a project of maintaining a trim figure. Then came Bev Francis, a female bodybuilder and powerlifter. In 1981, she was the first woman to bench over 300 pounds (330 lbs, or 150 kgs), shattering the glass ceiling of what a female could do.
Emboldened by that legacy, I cut my hair short again and tried on my singlet, embracing the unflattering gear (think over-grown toddler). I stopped obsessing over the scale. To my surprise, the “bulk” I’d been conditioned to fear never materialized. Instead, I just looked strong. Jon helped me improve my set up and with a simple adjustment in form, my bench improved.

I began filming my sets to keep a record of my training, the misses and the wins. Replaying the videos, I watched my face turn red, strained and ugly with effort. I posted them anyway. Who cared? It was liberating to stop placing my worth in a subjective ideal. At the gym, lifters come in all shapes and sizes. Everyone is on their own journey, coexisting in a shared space. To me, that is beautiful. And there is still a special, satisfying magic in an unassuming woman who turns out to be strong as hell.

Deadlift
The deadlift is where good intentions go to die. You either move the bar or you don’t. This is the realm pioneered by Jan Todd, powerlifter and strength sport historian. In the late 70s, Todd became the first woman to total 1,000 pounds (454 kg) in a powerlifting meet (before going on to total 1,100 lbs and 1,200 lbs in subsequent meets), proving that women could occupy the same space as men.

As I took my sumo stance and gripped the bar for my final attempt, hands caked in chalk and legs dusted with baby powder, I knew this wasn’t a whim anymore. Three months of training had led to this moment. It was very real.

But I also know the platform remains a contested space. In late 2025, the Minnesota Supreme Court ruled in favor of JayCee Cooper, a transgender woman who sued USA Powerlifting Federation for discrimination after they refused to let her compete as a woman. The court found that categorical bans on trans women violated human rights laws. It was a massive win, yet a limited one; the USAPL continues to ban trans women from competing as women in all states but Minnesota. While trans athletes may elect to compete in their own “MX” class, it is a stark reminder that the fight for a woman’s right to be strong is far from over.

I left the meet with eight white lights, chalk everywhere, and a sense of having just scratched the surface of my capability. The history of women in this sport isn’t a straight line, much like training itself, it’s a series of heavy lifts. It’s a history of women who when told they would break, responded by becoming unbreakable. Who decided to stop apologizing for taking up space, refusing to shrink themselves

Joining Green Bay Strength Club changed my brain, not just my body. I no longer want to be “toned” or “lean”, words that, in my opinion, keep women small and weak--not just physically but mentally--constantly trying to become smaller for approval. No. I want to be strong--mentally, emotionally, and physically. With lifting, I am a force of nature. I take up space. I am powerful.

The iron is always indifferent, sitting cold and lifeless on the platform. But now I don’t wonder if I’m allowed to move it. I just reach down, hook my grip, and pull.

Grace Grocholski is a part-time librarian, full-time bookworm. In her spare time, she enjoys running, baking, and feeding her online chess addiction.