Resilience, Joy, and the Beauty of showing up exactly as you are.

PART I - Rachel’s Story

When I was a young girl, I used to dream about a place where I truly belonged. I imagined a space where I could breathe easily, laugh loudly, and just be—without hiding, shrinking, or performing for safety. Looking back, I think that dream was less about having four walls around me and more about a feeling: Safety. Authenticity. Freedom.

I suspect those dreams aren’t unique. Most of us, in some way, long to be seen and accepted as we are. But the truth is, not all of us get to realize those dreams—especially if you’re someone who’s queer or spent their life being told that you’re “too much” or “not enough,” or if the world around you was never built with your body, your love, your voice in mind.

I grew up as a queer girl but I didn’t have the tools, language or the freedom to explore my queer identity until much later. It wasn’t until my late twenties—maybe even my thirties—that I was able to claim my queerness, to let it shape my life openly. I was finally beginning to find my own voice, my community, my heart. There’s nothing quite like the feeling of settling into yourself after years of holding your breath.

But just as I started to find that sense of home, it was all ripped away. I was 33 years old, finally hitting my stride, when a semi truck driver failed to see me in his blind spot and crashed into my car on the freeway. In that instant, everything changed.

Suddenly, I was not only a queer woman navigating a world that already looked at me with suspicion or dismissal—I was now a disabled queer woman in a society that would rather pretend people like me don’t exist at all. That accident robbed me of my ability to speak and to control my body. Basic things—ordering a cup of coffee, making a doctor’s appointment, doing physical therapy—became enormous challenges. I felt myself shrinking again, but this time, it was as if the world itself was shrinking around me, closing me out.

The message I got—over and over—was that I was “damaged goods.” That I didn’t belong. That help was always for someone else. People who didn’t know me, or who didn’t want to, looked through me or past me, never seeing my humanity, only my difference. 

It was one of the darkest times of my life. And then, in the middle of that darkness, I met my partner, Andrew.
Andrew is an elite athlete with a big heart and even bigger courage. He came into my life with so much openness and curiosity, but like so many, he didn’t understand at first how many doors are closed to people like me. One day, he asked me why I never joined him at the gym, why I didn’t try to work out anymore. I told him the truth: “No one will help me. No one will even talk to me.”

He was shocked. He’d never had to fight to be seen in those spaces; the doors that slammed in my face were always held open for him. As our relationship grew, so did his intolerance for the injustices he began to witness firsthand.

When the opportunity to buy High Voltage Fitness came up, our decision was immediate and clear: we would build the kind of gym that we had both longed for—a place where every door was open. A place where everyone, regardless of body, identity, or ability, could belong. We set out to create not just a gym, but a community of radical inclusion and safety for those left out by the traditional gym industry.

Building High Voltage into a sanctuary for queer, disabled, and neurodivergent people wasn’t easy. The fitness world—like so many spaces—often celebrates only one kind of body, one story, one way of moving through the world. From inaccessible equipment to unspoken biases, the barriers are everywhere.

But each time we opened our doors to someone who had been told “you don’t belong here,” we were reminded why we started. Each time a member told us it was the first time they felt safe, or truly seen, or didn’t have to explain their needs or apologize for their existence, it became more than just a gym. It became a chosen family.

In creating High Voltage, I found the belonging I’d always craved as a child. I found a community of incredible people—queer folks, disabled folks, people of color, neurodivergent folks, allies—who teach me every day about resilience, joy, and the beauty of showing up exactly as you are.

My disability, once the source of so much pain and exclusion, became the compass that pointed me to this purpose. It forced me to carve out a place where all of my identities—queer, disabled, woman—could exist in harmony, and where others could do the same.

Running an inclusive gym is not just about access to equipment or classes; it’s about culture. It’s about actively dismantling shame, perfectionism, and competition, and replacing them with compassion, adaptability, and community. We ask every member: “What do you need to thrive?” We listen. We adapt. We celebrate every victory—whether it’s a new PR, the courage to walk in the door for the first time, or simply a day when your body feels good moving.

It’s not lost on me that out of my own tragedy came this immense gift. High Voltage is a testament to the possibility that love and community can grow from the hardest places. For every person who has ever felt “othered,” unwelcome, or unsafe in traditional gyms, this space exists for you. For every queer, disabled, neurodivergent, or marginalized person longing for safety and belonging: you are not alone.

My hope is that High Voltage inspires others - gym owners, coaches, community leaders - to look around and ask: “Who is missing? Who feels unsafe here, and what can we do about it?” True inclusion is an active, ongoing process. It’s a commitment to see and celebrate each other, to open doors that have always been closed.

Because everyone deserves a place to belong. Sometimes, the places we build for ourselves become the safe havens our younger selves always needed. And sometimes, those places have room for so many more.