Iron Heart, Lonely Road: Jenna’s Journey (extended video) (Patreon)

Jenna, a muscular fitness coach, travels the world and lifts heavy, but her strength intimidates men, leaving her lonely despite her power.

I’m standing here in my hotel suite in Paris, staring at my reflection in the mirror, my muscles flexing under the soft light. I’m Jenna Voss, 34 years old, and I’ve built this body with every ounce of sweat and determination I’ve got. My biceps peak at 17 inches, my abs are a carved six-pack, and my thighs could crush steel. I love lifting weights—it’s my sanctuary, my escape. Whether I’m deadlifting 500 pounds in a gym in Tokyo or squatting in a makeshift setup in Bali, the iron never judges me. But as much as I love my strength… I’m lonely. And I don’t know how to fix it.

I’ve always been a traveler. Ever since I was a kid, I’d dream of seeing the world—museums in Florence, beaches in Santorini, markets in Marrakech. Now, I make it happen. I’ve got the freedom to go anywhere, thanks to my remote job as a fitness coach. I post my workouts online, inspiring women to lift heavy and love their bodies, and it pays the bills. Last month, I was in Cape Town, hiking Table Mountain with a 50-pound pack on my back, my quads burning as I reached the summit. The view was breathtaking—endless ocean, golden sun—but I turned to share the moment, and… there was no one there. Just me, alone again.

I love being powerful. There’s nothing like the rush of hitting a new personal record, feeling my muscles grow, knowing I’m stronger than most men I meet. In Rio last year, I entered a local strongman competition on a whim. I flipped tires bigger than me, carried 300-pound yokes like they were nothing, and won the whole thing. The crowd cheered, but the guys… they kept their distance. I saw it in their eyes—intimidation, maybe even fear. One guy, a competitor, tried to flirt, but when I flexed my arm for him, he stammered and backed off. It’s the same story everywhere I go. In Sydney, a guy at the gym asked me out, but when I showed up—6 feet tall in heels, my shoulders broader than his—he couldn’t even look me in the eye. He left halfway through dinner, mumbling some excuse.

I don’t get it. I’m not just muscle—I’m a woman who loves to laugh, who cries at sunsets, who dances to street music in Barcelona. I wear my heart on my sleeve, but guys see my body and assume I’m too much for them. They’re intimidated by my strength, my confidence, the way I take up space unapologetically. I’ve tried toning it down, wearing looser clothes, skipping the flexing… but that’s not me. I love my power. I love the way my white sports bra hugs my chest, the way my black leggings show off every curve of my quads. I love walking into a room and knowing I’m the strongest person there. But the cost… it’s heavy. I’m lonely in a way that aches deeper than any muscle soreness.

I’ve been in Paris for a week now, and it’s been the same. I lifted at a gym near the Eiffel Tower, and the guys there stared… but none of them approached me. I walked along the Seine, my blonde hair catching the breeze, hoping someone might strike up a conversation. Nothing. Last night, I sat at a café in Montmartre, sipping espresso, watching couples laugh and hold hands. I wanted that—someone to share the magic of this city with. I thought about messaging an old friend, someone I met in New York a few years back. He was a photographer, sweet and artistic, but even he got nervous when I casually lifted him off the ground during a shoot, laughing as I did it. He never called me back after that.

I don’t know what to do. I can’t give up lifting—it’s who I am. Every rep, every set, it’s like I’m proving to myself that I can do anything. In Dubai, I trained in the desert heat, sand sticking to my skin as I pressed 200-pound dumbbells overhead. In Iceland, I pulled a sled across a glacier, my breath steaming in the freezing air. My body is my passport, my proof that I’m unstoppable. But I want more than that. I want someone who sees past the muscles, who isn’t afraid to hold my hand, to kiss me under the Northern Lights, to laugh with me in a tiny café in Hanoi.

I’ve thought about trying to date women, thinking maybe they’d understand me better, but I haven’t found the courage yet. For now, I keep traveling, keep lifting, keep hoping. Maybe in the next city—maybe in Barcelona or Seoul—I’ll meet someone who isn’t intimidated by me. Someone who sees my strength and loves it, who wants to explore the world with me, who can handle a woman who’s powerful in every sense of the word. Until then, I’ll keep flexing in front of mirrors, keep chasing sunsets, keep being me… even if it means being alone. But I hope—I really hope—that changes soon.