I used to believe strength had a predictable silhouette.

Broad shoulders, thick forearms, a voice that could end an argument without raising its volume. The kind of “strong” you see cast as heroes, bouncers, soldiers—mostly men, mostly framed like gravity itself favored them.

Then one rainy Tuesday, in a cramped editing room that smelled faintly of protein powder and stale coffee, I hit play on a messy transcript from a voiceover gig I’d agreed to write—one of those list videos that sound shallow until you’re knee-deep in research and realize the subject is anything but.

The working title on the document read:

“20 Strong Women You Don’t Want to Mess With.”

I rolled my eyes at the bravado. Internet titles were always trying to wrestle your attention to the floor. Still, the clips I’d been sent were full of names, achievements, numbers that didn’t look real when written down. Deadlifts that sounded like a printing error. Olympic medals. Championships stacked like bricks. And in the middle of it all—an undercurrent I didn’t expect:

Not just strength.

Defiance.

The kind that comes from being told, for years, that you shouldn’t exist in the shape you’ve built.

Outside the window, rain stitched thin lines into the evening. My phone buzzed: a message from my editor.

Need the script by Friday. Punch it up. Make it feel like a ride.

A ride. Right.

I looked at the transcript again. It opened with a cliché and then twisted it:

“The general consensus is that men are the stronger sex… but that might not always be the case.”

I leaned back, staring at that sentence like it was a dare.

I’d grown up in a house where “strong” meant carrying groceries in one trip, not “winning the Arnold.” Where women were praised for being resilient but discouraged from being powerful in a way you could measure.

I didn’t realize how much that had shaped me—until the first name in the list grabbed my attention like a hand around the collar.

Number 20: Tina Nguyen

The transcript called her an IFBB figure competitor from Vietnam who lived in Texas. The details were clean and practical: pro athlete, admired online, handling trolls and haters, balancing bodybuilding with a full-time job in real estate.

The part that stuck wasn’t just her physique, or that she’d risen after winning the 2014 NPC Nationals, or that she’d opened a personal training company. It was this:

When her family moved from Vietnam to the U.S., she didn’t know how to fit in.

So she went to the gym. Not to be seen. To disappear—into effort, into repetition, into something that didn’t care about accents or belonging.

I paused the video and stared at the waveform on my screen. I knew that refuge. Most people do, in one form or another. A place you go when you don’t want to explain yourself.

I typed a few lines for Tina’s segment—something about strength being a second language that anyone can learn—but the words felt too neat. Too safe.

Because strength, I was starting to understand, is never just the weight.

It’s the cost.

I kept watching.

The “Sweet Topic” Photo

Halfway through the transcript, the tone shifted into that familiar YouTube trick: the sudden detour, the audience bait.

A “loyal subscriber” had found a photo on Facebook—a profile picture from a gym page in Orlando. A woman with arms like carved stone, the narrator joking she could “punch a hole in the moon.”

It was meant to be funny. The kind of hyperbole that gets comments.

But my mind snagged on it anyway, because I knew what always came next: the laughter, the awe—then the cruelty.

People say they’re impressed, right up until the moment they’re threatened.

And the internet is full of people who feel threatened by a woman who looks like she could carry the world and still have a free hand.

I’d seen comment sections turn into firing squads over less.

I remembered the first time I posted a fitness piece featuring women who lifted heavy. A stranger had replied within minutes:

“She looks like a man.”

Like it was a verdict.

Like it was a punishment.

The transcript had a name for that kind of thing later. A whole Instagram page dedicated to flipping that insult back at the world.

I didn’t know then how relevant that would become.

Number 19: Anita Floric

Anita’s section read like a list of trophies that refused to be ignored. Polish-born. Started powerlifting at sixteen. Multiple Polish championships. European Champion in 2000. Then, like she got bored of winning locally, she aimed at the world.

Four-time winner of the World’s Strongest Woman competition—2003, 2005, 2006, 2008. A Guinness World Record for most wins.

I pictured her in the middle of a competition floor, chalk in the air, her hands around something absurdly heavy, expression blank with focus. The world loves to pretend strength is a surprise when it shows up in a woman’s body—like it’s a magic trick instead of years of work.

Anita wasn’t a trick.

She was a decade of dominance.

I wrote her as a storm that didn’t ask permission to form.

Number 18: Rhea Ripley

Wrestling entered the list next, and I almost dismissed it on instinct. Sports entertainment, scripted outcomes, flashy gimmicks.

But then the transcript described her career the way fans do when they’re trying to explain why someone matters:

Australia. The Mae Young Classic. A transformation—embracing a darker look, becoming “The Nightmare.” First NXT UK Women’s Champion. NXT Women’s Champion. Titles on the main roster. Winning the Royal Rumble from the number one position—lasting an hour.

A full hour in the ring, starting first, surviving every new challenger.

The transcript pointed out something else: she wasn’t afraid to be seen without makeup, to be seen in the gym, to be seen as a worker, not just a character.

And here’s the truth no one tells you when you start writing about public figures: the toughest part of strength isn’t always lifting or fighting.

It’s being visible.

Visibility is a kind of exposure. It invites admiration, sure—but it also invites the kind of resentment that doesn’t need a reason.

The bigger her following, the more people wanted to cut her down to size.

That’s when I felt it—the first real spine-prickle of the story I was writing.

Because the transcript wasn’t just a list.

It was a map of the same battlefield, repeated twenty different ways.

“Strong” Doesn’t Look One Way

Next came Sarah Robles, an Olympic medal-winning weightlifter who didn’t fit the stereotype people expected.

The transcript described her size—140 kg, 1.79 meters tall—and the way people underestimated her because her strength wasn’t packaged neatly.

But she was the one who broke a sixteen-year drought for U.S. Olympic podium finishes.

The heaviest division. The kind of weight where the bar bends and the room holds its breath.

Her segment didn’t just challenge the “women aren’t strong” myth.

It challenged the “strength must be pretty” myth.

Then Jessica Fithen—once called the strongest woman in the world, targeted by trolls for not “looking the part.” The transcript said she’d cuss out trolls and then turn around and help people train, including strong men who wanted to mimic her feats.

And the Instagram page: “You Look Like a Man.”

A title that took the most common insult and turned it into a banner.

Her husband wore a shirt: “My girl’s stronger than you.”

A joke. A brag. A shield.

I paused again, hands hovering over the keyboard.

I realized the story I needed to write wasn’t about twenty women who could hurt you.

It was about twenty women who refused to shrink so other people could feel larger.

Tamara Walcott and the Weight That “Felt Light”

Tamara’s segment hit like a punchline delivered by physics.

She once lifted 290 kg and said, “It feels light.”

At the Arnold Sports Festival in 2022, she set a world record deadlifting 641 pounds. Thirty-nine years old. Mother of two.

But the transcript wasn’t just about her record. It was about the before.

She used to be dangerously unhealthy. Called herself a food addict. Weighed up to 188 kg. Stairs became an enemy.

Then she turned it around—lost 45 kg in a year, found powerlifting, entered her first competition in 2008, and kept going.

I wrote a paragraph about how strength isn’t always something you’re born with—sometimes it’s something you forge to survive yourself.

That line felt true, and it scared me a little how true it felt.

Because in the weeks after I started outlining this piece, my inbox began to change.

At first, it was normal: people asking who would be in the list, suggesting other athletes, debating names. Then came messages that weren’t debates—messages that felt like someone had left a door open on purpose.

“Women like this are disgusting.”
“This is why society is collapsing.”
“You’re glorifying freaks.”

I’d written about controversial topics before. I wasn’t naïve.

But something about strength makes certain people irrational.

Maybe because it’s the one thing you can’t argue away. You can deny opinions. You can spin narratives. But you can’t talk a barbell into being lighter.

The day I posted a teaser clip—thirty seconds of B-roll: women deadlifting, pressing, pulling sleds—my comment section turned into a war zone.

And then, in the flood of noise, one message stood out because it wasn’t loud.

It was calm.

Stop making them heroes. They’re a problem.

I stared at it until my eyes hurt.

Then I saved it to a folder, because I’d learned the hard way: calm hate is the kind that acts.

Chincha Condra: Talent—and the Trap of Hype

The transcript brought up “Strongest Ninja Girl,” Chincha Condra—martial artist, stunt performer, hired for work connected to major productions. Skilled, clearly.

But it also mentioned controversy: she and her teacher had made claims that were too big, too godlike, and got called out.

It was a reminder I needed. Strength culture has its own predators—people who sell myths, shortcuts, magical mastery.

Real strength isn’t magic. It’s boring. It’s repetition. It’s sleep and nutrition and time.

But the internet loves miracles. It loves an impossible promise.

And when you combine that with a woman who already makes people uncomfortable, you get a dangerous cocktail: admiration that turns into suspicion, suspicion that turns into accusation.

I wrote Chincha as a warning inside the celebration: show what you can do, but don’t inflate it until it breaks credibility. Don’t hand your critics the weapon they’re waiting for.

Ronda Rousey and the Cost of Being First

Ronda’s segment was unavoidable. Olympic judo bronze in 2008. UFC star who helped define the women’s division. Reputation for armbars, for making opponents tap. First woman inducted into the UFC Hall of Fame. WWE championships, WrestleMania main event history.

The transcript acknowledged her losses too—how her time in UFC went down “in flames.”

That part mattered.

Because strength isn’t just winning.

It’s what you do when you lose under a spotlight that wants your collapse to be entertaining.

Ronda had been framed as a symbol. People don’t let symbols be human. They cheer for your rise and then demand a dramatic fall.

She survived being both.

I wrote her as a door that once opened doesn’t close again: after her, women fighting wasn’t a novelty. It was a division.

Becca Swanson, Chloe Brennan, Iris Kyle—Different Kinds of Dominance

Becca Swanson: bodybuilder who shifted into powerlifting, set world records, deadlifted 282 kg equipped, first known woman in the 2,000-pound club total. Even tried wrestling, trained by Harley Race, and discovered strength doesn’t guarantee comfort in every arena.

Chloe Brennan: England’s Strongest Woman 2019, winning four out of six events while recovering from a severe back injury. The part I loved wasn’t the victory—it was the recovery. The stubborn insistence on coming back.

Iris Kyle: seventeen titles, ten Ms. Olympia wins, seven Ms. International. The most successful female professional bodybuilder ever.

Her origin story was almost simple: moved to Orange County, saw fit people, decided to become one. Then she did.

The simplicity is what makes it terrifying.

No drama. No miracle. Just decision and execution repeated until the world had to acknowledge it.

As I wrote each segment, my story began to take shape around them—not as a list, but as a night, a single narrative thread.

A fictional night, yes, but built from real forces: the gym, the stage, the crowd, the trolls.

A night where strength is tested not by iron, but by eyes.

Chen Wei-Ling, Yeon Woo-mi, Natalia Trukhina, Julia Vins: The World is Bigger Than Your Stereotypes

Chen Wei-Ling: Taiwan, three Olympics, bronze medal, world records, squatting four and a half times her bodyweight. The transcript called her proof that “big things come in small packages,” but I wrote her as proof that packages are a dumb metaphor for people.

Yeon Woo-mi: South Korea’s “Muscle Barbie,” first person from South Korea to earn an IFBB Pro card—man or woman. Once skinny and frail, hated feeling weak, went to the gym, won her first competition, became a star.

Natalia Trukhina: Russian bodybuilder and powerlifter, European champion in bench and deadlift, now coaching.

Julia Vins: also Russian, also called “Muscle Barbie,” embraced it, chased confidence, became a two-time world champion at the World Powerlifting Congress.

The patterns repeated: insecurity transformed into force. Mockery turned into motivation. Visibility turned into a target.

Chyna: The Tragic Weight of Being Ahead of the World

Then the transcript shifted into something heavier.

Chyna—Joanie Laurer—was described as a force of nature: tall, muscular, beautiful, willing to learn. In an era when women weren’t treated as viable wrestlers, she became a bodyguard, an enforcer, a champion, the “Ninth Wonder of the World.”

First woman in the Royal Rumble back when it was one combined match. Only woman in King of the Ring. First and only woman to win the Intercontinental Title. At one point, a number-one contender to the world title.

And then: substance issues. Struggles. Medication. Death in 2016.

I stared at that part for a long time.

Because Chyna’s story isn’t just about strength. It’s about what happens when the world consumes someone it never fully respected. When you’re historic, but not protected.

I wrote her as a warning, too: strength doesn’t make you invulnerable. Sometimes it just makes people forget you can bleed.

Donna Moore, Shen Grant, Andrea Shaw, Bev Francis: The Crown and the Rules

Donna Moore: British strongwoman, winner of the World’s Strongest Woman in 2016 and 2017, Arnold Strongwoman champion, and a record at the Dinnie Stones-type challenge—lifting heavier and heavier stones, placing them on a platform in time, beating men who mocked women for trying.

Shen Grant: bullied in school, turned to fitness, got her pro card, competed, coached others, built a life in her own world where other people’s opinions weren’t rent she paid anymore.

Andrea Shaw: dominated bodybuilding during the pandemic, moved from physique to bodybuilding, won three straight competitions including Ms. Olympia.

And then, at number one: Bev Francis.

A legend from the 1980s, holding world records, bench pressing 150 kg—first woman to hit that level at the time. Gold medals for five years straight at the IPF championships.

Then the catch: a rules change that punished her for having “too much muscle mass.” People in positions of influence decided women like her were too strong and changed the game to make them illegal.

I wrote that section last.

Because that’s the true horror in the story of strong women: not the weights, not the fights, not even the hatred online.

It’s the gatekeeping that looks like policy.

It’s being told you can win—until you win too hard.

The Night of the “Catwalk”

By Thursday, my editor had what he wanted: a “ride.” But I’d also written something else, something that wasn’t in the brief.

A story.

I framed it as a single night in a surreal event: a “musclebound catwalk of the century,” an arena where the twenty women weren’t competing against each other, but against the audience’s expectations.

In the story, the narrator—someone like me—stands backstage, watching women file past: Tina Nguyen adjusting her wrist wraps after closing a real estate deal; Anita Floric silent as a judge; Rhea Ripley walking like she owns gravity; Sarah Robles smiling as if she’s heard every insult and filed them under “irrelevant”; Tamara Walcott rolling her shoulders like 641 pounds is just another Tuesday.

As each woman passes, the narrator hears two kinds of sounds:

The crowd’s cheers.

And the whispers underneath.

That’s where the thriller lives: not in violence, but in the moment you realize admiration can flip into hostility with no warning.

In my story, a man in the crowd mutters something ugly—something about women not being “supposed” to look like that. His friend laughs. Someone else joins in. The narrator feels the old instinct to shrink, to avoid the confrontation.

But then, onstage, one of the women—Jessica Fithen in my version—turns toward the lights and smiles like she’s seen this movie before.

She doesn’t threaten anyone. She doesn’t need to.

She lifts.

Not to prove a point.

To end the argument.

And one by one, the women do the same. Lifts that don’t just move metal; they move the room. They make people rethink what “possible” means. They force the audience to watch the truth happen in real time.

In the final scene, the narrator finds a note taped to the inside of a locker—like a ritual passed between women who are tired of explaining themselves.

It reads:

You don’t need permission to be powerful.

And as I typed that last sentence, the calm hate message in my folder felt smaller—not gone, not harmless, but smaller.

Because the thing about strength—real strength—is that it changes the scale of everything around it.

Including fear.

Epilogue: Why This List Hit Different

On Friday, I sent the script. My editor replied within minutes:

This feels bigger than a list. It’s intense. We’re running it.

I shut my laptop and sat for a long time, listening to the rain.

I thought about how easy it is to joke about “She-Hulk territory,” to turn strong women into a spectacle. But the transcript had revealed something more important: these athletes weren’t trying to become monsters.

They were trying to become themselves—fully, unapologetically, without trimming their ambition to fit someone else’s comfort.

And if that makes certain people feel unsafe?

Maybe that’s the point.

Because the world has always been comfortable with women being strong in silence—strong in suffering, strong in endurance, strong in carrying what they’re handed.

But the moment strength becomes visible—measured, public, undeniable—that’s when the real fight begins.

Not with fists.

With permission.

And these twenty women, in twenty different ways, had all said the same thing:

No.