C.R.Z.A.J. Christine, Rachelle, Zay, Andy, Jay

Photo credit: Christine, Rachelle, Zay, Andy, Jay

Words by: Jay Wilkinson 

Christine
Growing up in the South, Christine found that the weight room became both a safe haven and a place to push back against the world. In a region where LGBTQIA+ acceptance was hard to come by, lifting wasn’t just about fitness—it was how she coped and took back control.

“Growing up in the South wasn’t the easiest for someone like me,” Christine says. “Lifting became my escape from all that. It helped me feel stronger—like I was building this invisible armor. When people didn’t understand or accept the LGBTQIA+ community, it helped me tune them out and not take it personally.”

She started out playing tennis and swimming in high school, but those spaces didn’t really feel like home. “I never felt totally comfortable—there weren’t many queer people, or anyone else who really got me.” That changed when she found weightlifting. It wasn’t just a sport—it was a space where she could truly be herself and feel seen.

College brought some tough moments, though. People at the gym started questioning her gender identity, asking whether she was “a guy or a girl.” It stung even more coming from other Black students. “I expected better,” she admits. For a while, it pushed her into working out late at night just to avoid the attention.

But Christine didn’t stay in the shadows for long. She came back stronger—physically and mentally—and started surrounding herself with people who accepted her exactly as she is. Her swimmer’s build—broad shoulders and a strong back—might not match traditional feminine beauty standards, but to her, they’re a sign of real strength. “I learned to love my body even through the hate. I kept training until I felt comfortable in my own skin.”

She also learned to recognize which spaces were safe and supportive. “At commercial gyms, I felt like I had to hide who I was. But private gyms? Way better—no judgment, just room to breathe. And run clubs were amazing too. It was just people showing up and supporting each other without judgment.”

When it comes to handling discrimination, Christine keeps it simple: “I just stay neutral. I’m me, no matter where I am. I’m not going to change who I am for anyone.” That kind of confidence and consistency has become her superpower—and it’s a message she hopes others hold onto.

For Christine, mental health and fitness go hand in hand. “Just like you train your body to get stronger, your mind goes through that same process. You’ve got to push through mentally, emotionally, even verbally, to get where you want to be. It’s all connected.”

Looking ahead, she’s honest about the ups and downs of social acceptance. “There are moments when people seem more accepting of LGBTQIA+ athletes, and then it drops again—like when Trump got elected in 2024, you could feel things shift. It goes up and down.”

Still, she’s holding on to hope—and using her story to encourage the next generation. “I just want younger kids to know it’s okay to take your time figuring out who you are. Don’t rush it. Be yourself and grow into it at your own pace.”

Rachelle
Rachelle got into sports early—basketball in grade school, thanks to parents who always encouraged her to stay active. But while her athletic journey came naturally, her path to self-acceptance has been a lot more complicated. There’s always been this tension between what her family expected and who she really is.

“I’ve always known who I was,” she says, “but in my family, it wasn’t something that was accepted. That made it hard for me to figure out how to approach relationships with other women or just express myself fully.” That disconnect stuck with her and still shows up in her life as an athlete.

As she’s stayed active over the years, Rachelle has noticed how fitness has amplified her masculine side—which is something she loves, but also sometimes struggles with. “Being active has made my masculinity more visible, and people are starting to notice. I overthink it sometimes, like . . . am I being too masculine in a feminine body?” Even with that inner conflict, she’s grown to love and embrace all sides of herself. “I really do love both my masculine and feminine sides.”

Home has always been kind of a mixed bag—it’s where she feels safe, but also where she’s felt the most pressure to hide parts of herself. “It was easy to hide at home, but when the topic of my identity came up, it always made things awkward and uncomfortable.” On the flip side, being in environments where she’s accepted? That’s when she truly thrives. “When I’m around people who are just natural and accepting, it’s like I can finally breathe. There’s no weird tension or boundaries being crossed.”

Lately, Rachelle has been diving more into the dance world, and now more than ever, she’s looking to connect with LGBTQIA+ spaces. “It’s super important to me now. I’m a dancer, and I want to be in more spaces where I feel seen—where I can build community with people who get it.” For her, finding that kind of belonging is key to mental and emotional wellness.

Looking ahead, Rachelle just wants to keep it real—and help others do the same. “I want to inspire people to be themselves no matter what. Especially women of color—I want us to be open, proud, and fully ourselves.” For her, sports and movement are powerful ways to claim space and show up confidently. “Athletics helps me assert myself, especially when I’m dealing with ignorance. It’s helped me grow into who I am.”

Zay 

Zay’s story is a powerful example of what it looks like to grow while staying true to yourself. Unlike some of his peers, he’s always felt relatively at ease with who he is—both in terms of identity and his love for sports. He approaches it all with confidence and authenticity, which sets him apart.

His journey toward better health has been intentional and full of growth. “It went from a five out of ten to closer to an eight or nine,” he says. “I started learning better ways to take care of myself—cleaner eating, regular cardio, and just getting serious about being my best self.” For Zay, being healthy isn’t just about fitness—it’s a way of affirming who he is.

What stands out about Zay is how confidently he handles life’s challenges. “He doesn’t think twice about his sexuality—he sees himself as equal to everyone, period,” someone close to him shared. Being active and working out help boost that inner confidence, creating a positive cycle of feeling good inside and out.

And then there’s the financial side—Zay’s stability has been a game-changer. “Having control of his money gives him strength,” a friend explained. “He doesn’t have to be in spaces he doesn’t want to be in. He can create environments where others feel safe and seen.” That freedom has not only empowered him but also allowed him to lift up the people around him.

Andy

“I’ve been a runner since ninth grade,” Andy says, “when I ran my first timed mile and realized I actually kind of liked it. It felt like something I could get better at just by showing up and pushing myself—even if that meant dragging my body around a track powered only by willpower.” Still, Andy adds, “I didn’t join the track or cross-country teams—I was too nervous. Honestly, I stayed away from all sports in high school. I was a shy, awkward queer kid just trying to survive, and athletics didn’t feel like a safe space.”

Things shifted in college. “I started running on my own, usually at night when the campus track was empty. No training plan, no structure—I’d just warm up, find some hot guy to tail, and let him unknowingly set my pace and distance. It was equal parts flirty and functional.”

“After graduation, during my first ‘real’ job, a coworker convinced me to sign up for a half marathon,” Andy recalls. “Most of my training happened on a treadmill, but by the time I crossed the finish line, I was completely hooked. I knew I wanted to go for a full marathon eventually—and yeah, I definitely had my eyes on Boston. Still chasing that goal.”

Being from New York, Andy always wanted the first marathon to be the NYC Marathon. “I got in through the lottery and somehow ended up doing most of the training in London, where I was living at the time with my then-boyfriend. London’s parks in the summer? Gorgeous.” But during one run, two guys snickered and called out “ladyboy.” “They probably forgot about it five minutes later, but that slur stuck with me. I started second-guessing everything—my stride, my clothes, whether I smiled too much when I ran, even what I did with my hands. It shook me.”

In 2020, right before the pandemic hit, Andy moved back to NYC from Hong Kong. “I was going through one of the biggest life resets I’ve ever experienced—ending a marriage, reevaluating my career, and trying to figure out who I really was, sober and single. Running became my anchor again. It helped me quit smoking and gave me a sense of control and purpose when everything else felt uncertain.”

Since then, Andy has run the NYC Marathon three times, started a sober run club called Self-Will Run Riot (“shoutout to all the fellow sober runners”), and joined Front Runners, NYC’s LGBTQ+ run club. “These days, I run with brightly painted nails and loud, colorful hair, and I love that I can show up exactly as I am without worrying about judgment or harassment. That still feels like a gift.”

Running through the streets of New York, Andy concludes, “helped me reconnect with myself—it’s where I found joy, health, confidence, and a kind of freedom I didn’t always believe was possible. I’m still chasing goals, still figuring things out, but running has been one of the most constant, healing things in my life.”

Jay 

I’ve been running my whole life—not just for sport, but to feel something, to escape, to survive. I grew up on the West Coast, mostly raised in the Midwest, and now I’m based in New York. My background is heavy. On my mom’s side, we’re Mexican and religious, and we grew up poor—housing assistance, food stamps, a single mom, in the ghetto, all of that. On my dad’s side, we’re Black, from California. I grew up in a house that did what it could to survive—not perfect, not easy, but we made it work.

As a kid, I was always active. Running was my outlet—a place where I could zone out and feel free. But I also always knew I didn’t quite fit in. I liked girls. I dressed like a boy and considered myself lesbian. I didn’t know what that meant at the time, but I knew I wasn’t in the body I was meant to be in.

I came out to myself slowly. Eventually, I started hormone therapy in college after moving from Kentucky to Phoenix to study fashion and graphic design. That time was rough—I didn’t have family out there, and I was changing physically in ways that felt amazing but also terrifying. I stopped calling home. I felt guilty for not telling my family what I was going through. Graduation came, but no one showed up to celebrate. I felt invisible, and I said, “Fuck it.” I spiraled—started drinking, doing drugs, numbing everything.

After college, I got a job at Shoe Palace and worked my way into a lead position. But then COVID hit, and everything fell apart again. That’s when I hit a breaking point. I knew I couldn’t keep living like that. So I packed up my life and moved to New York—no job, no plan, just hope and a need to start over.

I got back into running. At first, just to feel normal again. But soon it became everything—my therapy, my anchor, my reminder that I’m still here. I hustled so hard—picked up any work I could, started showing up at fashion shows and castings, networking, rebuilding my brand SLI.ME HABIT. And then I found HOKA. In less than two years, I got promoted three times. I became the first global community leader for HOKA—building spaces for people like me, who run for more than just health.

But even with all that growth, my relationship with my family is still hard. My mom knows I’m trans, but most of my family hasn’t seen me in over eight years. They don’t reach out. They don’t ask how I’m doing. Some days, it feels like I don’t exist to them.

So I run. I run to dodge that pain. I run to feel whole, even when I’m not. I run to remind myself that I’m still becoming. Running saved me. It continues to save me.

I’m not finished. But I’m still here. And I’m moving.