Finding My Strength: A Powerlifter's Story

The Smile and The Champ

If you watch me at a powerlifting meet, you’ll notice something consistent. On my first attempt, I’m smiling, laughing, and having a good time. On my third attempt—even if it's a make-or-break lift—I’m doing the same thing. As soon as I touch the bar, I'm there to compete. But whether I make the lift or fail, I’ll smile afterward. Why? Because I’m happy to be there. I’m just happy to have the opportunity to push myself and enjoy the ride.

That appreciation for the moment was forged long before I ever touched a barbell. When I was a kid, my father was a radio DJ, and through his work, I had the incredible chance to meet Muhammad Ali on three different occasions. On our final visit, Parkinson's had taken a heavy toll on him. He could barely get out of his chair. But as my dad told him I was getting into martial arts, he gestured for me to come closer.

He took my small hands and put them up in a fighting pose. Then, he gently pulled my fist forward and touched it right to his own chin. In that single, silent gesture, he passed on a spark. It was a huge, definitive moment in my entire life, an inspiration from the greatest champion of all time.

That encounter with greatness stands in stark contrast to my own humble beginnings in the world of sports and lifting.

Humble Beginnings

A desire for world records didn't drive my journey into weight training, but by a much simpler teenage goal: I was a short guy who just "wanted to be jacked for the girls." It started with 8-pound dumbbells, doing curls and sit-ups in my room. My training evolved when my mom got me a Weider weight bench from Walmart and my dad gave me my grandfather's old concrete weights. I’d go down there, bench press, do leg extensions, and drink chocolate milk before bed, thinking I was on the path to glory.

In high school, I played football, but my brash personality often clashed with the coach. I’d be playing cornerback and make a tackle on the complete opposite side of the field. He’d get frustrated, pull me from the game, and yell, "Why is my corner on this side of the field making plays on this side?" We just didn't get along. By my senior year, I’d had enough. With the UFC gaining popularity, I skipped traditional sports and started cage fighting instead.

But after the structure of high school sports disappeared, I found myself adrift and heading down a dangerous path.

Hitting Rock Bottom

After I graduated, I started drinking heavily. I don't like to label things, but looking back, it was as close to alcoholism as you could get. I was pounding beers every single day. The physical and emotional toll was devastating. In high school, I had some muscle and weighed 125 pounds; the drinking withered me away to a skeletal 113 pounds.

I couldn't figure out why I wasn't getting any ass. I’d be out at bars, trying to be respectful, and I'd approach a girl and say, "Hey, I saw you just finished your drink, was wondering if I could buy you another one?" The response was usually blunt: "You're too short for me." It happened a few times. One time I just snapped back, "Well to be honest you're too fat for me, I was just offering a drink," and got slapped right in the face.

The turning point came one day when I looked at myself in the mirror and was horrified by what I saw. I thought, "Oh my god. I look like I belong in the Holocaust." The realization hit me so hard that I stopped drinking that very day. Done. Cold turkey. I got a gym membership and finally started training for real.

That decision to get serious in the gym led me to my first taste of competition, though not in the sport I expected.

A Quick Detour Through Bodybuilding

Through networking at the gym, I heard about a local men's physique bodybuilding show and decided to give it a shot. I coached myself, figured out the diet on my own, and was genuinely proud of how I looked on stage.

The community's experience, however, was a different story. Backstage in the pump room, I tried to be my usual charismatic self—talking to people, hearing their stories, and making friends. But it just seemed like nobody wanted to fucking talk to you unless you had a name. They'd just snub you off. That cold, cliquey atmosphere rubbed me the wrong way. I also quickly grew tired of the vanity of it all, constantly walking past windows and flexing and doing dumb shit. It just wasn't for me.

Fortunately, that negative experience was immediately followed by the discovery of a community that felt like home.

Finding My Home in Powerlifting

Around the same time, I met a guy at my gym named Cory Svenson. He was the person who introduced me to powerlifting, and I hold this dude in the highest regard. Cory was methodical, brilliant, and way ahead of his time. He’s a "waste of talent," and he'll love that I said that, but this kid would have been John Haack and more. The way his mind worked was just different. I once watched him pull a 725-pound deadlift PR in training. It fired off the floor, got to mid-quad… and he just dropped it. I went nuts, "What the fuck man, why didn't you pull that?" He just said, "Eh, it'll be there next time. Something didn't feel right." Anyone else would have grinded that out, but not Cory. He was that smart.

He convinced me to try a powerlifting meet, and the difference between it and the bodybuilding show was night and day.

I was blown away. At my second meet ever, the guy who was supposed to wrap my knees backed out at the last minute. I was told to ask Ernie Lilliebridge Sr.—one of the biggest names on the planet—and he just said, "Come find me." The humility of the top-tier athletes was incredible. I knew instantly that I had found my place. The community is the single biggest reason I have stayed in this sport for 11 years.

Discovering this community was one thing; learning how to truly compete in it was another journey entirely.

The Grind: Learning, Growing, and Chasing a Dream

My path to becoming a serious lifter started by chance. At one meet, my knee wrapper was late, and I was on deck. I saw Dan Bell, a massive lifter I had only met once before during a training session, and asked if he could help. He stepped right up and wrapped my knees. Afterward, he told me to hit him up if I ever wanted any advice, and taking him up on that offer was the best thing I ever did for my lifting.

The most crucial thing Dan taught me was how to properly structure a 12-week meet prep. Before him, I didn't know what the fuck I was doing; I was just "maxing every day" like a kid. He introduced me to a methodical system of linear progression using percentages to peak for a competition. It was a complete game-changer.

My dedication to learning the craft became an obsession. My friend Cory had an apartment inside the gym where he worked. I’d go over there, and we would literally just watch YouTube videos on how to train. I’d watch Dan Green’s videos over and over, studying his technique frame by frame. My own technique evolved in weird ways. I started squatting low-bar not for some biomechanical advantage, but because I have a tattoo that goes down my spine and I didn't want to ruin it. When Cory saw me do it for the first time, he was like, "Oh shit, you low bar," and I was like, "What? No, I just squat." I had no idea what I was doing, just that I didn't want to rub off my tattoo.

It was during this time that I set the ultimate goal for myself, a goal that has driven me ever since. I defined it very simply:

"I want to have a world record... I don't care what fed it is... Do you have the heaviest lift that's ever been recorded in competition at that weight class? Yes? No? If not, you're not a world record holder. I don't care, that's just the way I look at it."

Armed with a clear goal and a structured plan, I started to chase numbers on the platform, experiencing both incredible highs and crushing lows.

Highs, Lows, and Life Outside the Platform

2017 was a massive year for me. I had told people I was going to squat 600 lbs at a bodyweight of 148 lbs, and I was literally told, "No, you won't. You can't do that." I just said, "Watch me." Before the meet, my coach Dan was going around the dinner table making predictions. He got to me and said, "Dave's going to squat 600, but it's going to be high." I told him to put his money where his mouth was, and we made a bet. I went out there, buried that 600, and won the bet.

But the lows can be just as intense. At one of my first meets after starting to supplement, I ended up with an abscess the size of a softball on my ass cheek. I had a 104° fever and was close to going septic. Nine days before the meet, I was in the ER with a belt in my mouth while a doctor dug it out with his fingers. For the meet, I had to have a buddy pack the gaping hole with gauze, and then we just duct-taped it to my ass. I still competed. The next prep, I got another one on the other side. This one was only the size of a golf ball.

Even crazier than lifting with an open wound is trying to balance life’s biggest goals with the platform. I took a two-year break from competing in 2018 and 2019. When my wife and I first got together, her tubes were tied. I told her, "Well, I'm having a kid, so we're going to fucking figure this out." We went down to North Carolina, she had the reversal procedure, and we were blessed with a pregnancy. That's what focusing on life meant. And honestly, the story of how we met is a one-in-a-million tale that proves life is weirder than lifting. Years before we met at work, I was at a bachelor party, dancing on a table while her mom shoved $13 down my pants. Her sister saw me at work years later and said, "Hey, that's that guy we call 'hot butt guy'!" She pulled up a picture, and sure enough, there I was. On our second date, I showed her a picture of the truck I’d just bought. Turns out, I bought it from her ex-husband while they were still married.

So what pulled me back to the platform after all that? It was simple. I still had goals I hadn't achieved. And if I say I'm going to do something, I'm going to do it, no matter how long it takes.

That break gave me perspective, and returning to the platform solidified the core philosophies I've carried with me ever since.

What 11 Years on the Platform Taught Me

After more than a decade of competing, I've learned a few valuable lessons that I strive to pass on to the next generation of lifters.

1. It's a Marathon, Not a Sprint I see young lifters come into the gym wanting to break records overnight. I always tell them to be patient. Don't get discouraged if you don't hit your biggest goals in your first few years. Longevity is the key to success in this game.
   
   
2. This is a Hobby, So Have Fun. At the end of the day, we don't get paid big money to do this. This is a hobby sport, so we should have fun with it. My buddy Go's wife, Heidi, put it perfectly: "You take it as serious as it has to be." Have the right amount of fun with the right amount of "I'm going to go fuck shit up on the platform." But never forget that "this is lifting weights, people."
   
   
3. Find Your Community. I will say it again and again: the best part of powerlifting is the people. The lasting, close relationships I've built are worth more than any medal. Take the time to get to know the people around you beyond just what they lift. Ask them their story.
   
   
4. Embrace Failure. This brings me back to where I started. Failing a lift is not the end of the world. Getting buried by a world record attempt wasn't a tragedy; it was a lesson. I smile after every miss because I am genuinely happy for the opportunity—the opportunity to be there, to push my limits, and to live to fight another day.