The Summer of Giants (extended video) (Patreon)

The women’s gymnastics team came back massive, making us guys look tiny. I buckled shaking one’s hand—I feel like a child next to them.

I’m standing in the gym, chalk dust swirling in the air, the familiar creak of the mats under my feet as I prepare for my routine on the rings. I’m a gymnast—have been since I was six—and at 24, I’ve always considered myself pretty muscular. My shoulders are broad, my biceps are defined, my core is a solid block from years of training. I’m 5’9”, 170 pounds of lean muscle, and I’ve always felt strong, capable, in control. But that was before the women’s team came back from summer break. Now, as I watch them across the gym, I feel like a child—small, insignificant, a shadow in the presence of giants.

Over the summer, something happened to them. I don’t know if it was a new training regimen, some kind of experimental program, or just sheer determination, but every single one of them has become… massive. They’re not just muscular—they’re colossal, bigger than any bodybuilder I’ve ever seen, their bodies a symphony of power that makes us guys look tiny in comparison. I first noticed it when they walked in for the fall season, their footsteps echoing through the gym like thunder. Their arms are thicker than my thighs, their shoulders broader than any linebacker’s, their thighs bulging with muscle that could probably crush steel. And yet, they’re still gymnasts—graceful, fluid, their movements as precise as ever, a paradox of strength and elegance that commands every eye in the room.

I remember the first time I got close to one of them—Lila, the team captain. She’s always been a powerhouse, but now she’s something else entirely. I went to congratulate her on a perfect vault, my hand extended for a friendly shake. She smiled, her grip closing around mine, and I swear I felt my bones creak. The pressure was unreal, her hand like a vise, and I buckled to my knees, pain shooting up my arm as I gasped. She let go quickly, her eyes wide with concern, but I was already on the floor, my ego more bruised than my hand. “Sorry, I forget my own strength sometimes,” she said, her voice soft but resonant, and I just nodded, too stunned to speak. I felt like a child next to her, a toddler shaking hands with a giant.

They all command attention now, every move they make a spectacle. When they walk across the gym, the air shifts, conversations stop, and even the coaches pause to watch. I saw Mia on the uneven bars yesterday, her biceps flexing as she swung, her body a wall of muscle that somehow moved with the grace of a dancer. She dismounted, landing with a thud that shook the floor, and I couldn’t look away. Her quads rippled as she walked off the mat, her abs a chiseled fortress, and I felt my own muscles—muscles I’d worked years to build—seem pathetic in comparison. I’ve competed against guys who’ve bulked up, but these women are different. They’re not just big—they’re otherworldly, their strength a force of nature, their grace a defiance of physics.

Even on the balance beam, where precision is everything, they move like they own the world. I watched Sarah—a quiet girl who used to be all legs and flips—perform a routine that left my jaw on the floor. Her arms were thicker than mine, her back a map of muscle, but she moved with a lightness that shouldn’t be possible. She did a handstand, her body a perfect line, and held it for what felt like forever, her muscles flexing under the strain, yet her face was calm, serene, like she was floating. When she dismounted, the gym erupted in applause, and I clapped too, but inside, I felt small, insignificant, a gymnast who thought he was strong until he saw what true strength looks like.

We guys used to dominate the gym, our routines the ones that drew the crowds, but now it’s all about them. I overheard one of the coaches talking about how they’ve been breaking records left and right, their strength giving them an edge we can’t match. I tried to keep up with them once, joining a conditioning session just to see if I could hang. They were doing weighted pull-ups, each of them with more plates hanging from their belts than I could lift off the ground. I managed three reps with half their weight before my arms gave out, and they just smiled, encouraging me to keep going, but I could see the amusement in their eyes. They weren’t even breaking a sweat, their muscles glistening, their power undeniable.

I don’t know how to feel about it. Part of me is in awe, captivated by their transformation, their grace, their sheer presence. But another part of me feels… less. I’ve always been proud of my body, my strength, my skill, but next to them, I’m nothing. They’re bigger than any bodybuilder I’ve ever seen, their muscles a testament to a level of dedication I can’t comprehend, and yet they move with a grace that makes my routines look clunky in comparison. I watch them now, as they laugh together near the vault, their voices carrying over the gym, their bodies a reminder of what power really looks like. I’m a gymnast, but they’re something more—giants, goddesses, a new breed of athlete that makes me feel like a child in their shadow.