In Memory of Justin Tooley

Once in a while, you cross paths with someone that leaves you in a better place than they found you. Sometimes it’s a significant other or a best friend. It may be a teacher or a stranger that was in the right place at the right time. For me, it was my first strength coach, Justin Tooley. 

I stumbled into Justin’s gym – plainly named ‘The Gym’ – at the invitation of a friend. I had been working out at the local luxury gym where there was air conditioning and a smoothie bar, locker rooms with a shower and a sauna. Spa-like music was piped in over the sound system and CNN streamed on the TVs. The Gym was a different animal. It was in a warehouse. There was no air conditioning, just the bay doors thrown open and big fans moving humid air around. Pounding hip hop played over the loudspeakers and most of the equipment was used. Some of it I had never even seen before. 

The hell was I getting into? 

The only other woman when I walked in was a coach, Toni, who hugged me like she had known me her whole life. A big bear of a hug, the kind that crushes your ribs and lets you know they care. She introduced me to Justin. He was a wall of a man with a long, unruly beard and his hair pulled back into a slick knot. He, too, greeted me like an old friend and told me to “hop on the rower for a few minutes.” 

The rower? Sir, I do not do cardio and this is a strength gym.  

I wasn’t going to tell him no, though. He was a lot bigger than me. 

I damn near died during that workout. I don’t remember much about it, but I do remember bench pressing with a bamboo bar with kettlebells hanging off either side. Ever done that? It’s hard as hell and it forces you to have good form. I was terrible at it. I also remember having to teach barre immediately afterward. I couldn’t demo the pushups. I couldn’t even lift my arms above my shoulders for the next three days either.  

Before I left, Justin invited me to come back two days later. “It’s leg day. You’ll like it.” I agreed and asked him how to pay a drop-in fee since only the first class was free. “We’ll worry about that later.” 

He was right. I loved leg day. 

That Monday was Memorial Day. 

“Some of us are working out at nine. You ought to come. It’s leg day again.” 

“I’ll be there. How do I pay?” 

“We can talk about that on Monday.” 

A week later, I was signed up on the unlimited plan. Justin’s workouts were hard, unconventional, and left me sore for days. I loved them. I became a regular at 6AM Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and at 1PM on Sundays. When he added a free community cardio group on Saturday mornings, I came to that, too. I was in good shape when I joined The Gym, but soon, I was not only in great shape – I was strong as hell. 

The Gym community extended past the workouts. We met up for dinners and for Thursday nights at Carter’s Mountain. We went tubing down the James more times than I can count, went to each other’s events around town. We raised money for organizations, collected supplies for others. Justin was at the heart of it all. 

Justin was a gifted strength coach. He followed the Westside Barbell method and was always pushing limits, trying new things, programming seemingly crazy supersets that always had a reason behind them. He knew the body, the mechanics of it, how it was supposed to move. He wasn’t in the business of promoting weight loss or promising a certain type of performance. He wanted his athletes to be able to, and I quote, “survive the apocalypse.” He often said we “trained for life,” that we should be able to squat and deadlift and bench and run and jump in order to do the everyday things like carry our groceries, walk up stairs, and pick up our children. And in the event of an emergency – or an apocalypse – we would be able to survive and help others. Because we trained for life. 

The thing is, Justin wasn’t just physically training us. He was working on our hearts and minds too, even if we didn’t know it. 

Justin knew the difference between pain and discomfort. He knew when an athlete was hurt versus when they didn’t believe in themselves. He knew when to push, when to pull, when to hold back. He knew when you needed a break, when you needed to go heavier, when you could do “one more set” even though you were on your eighth one and his workout only had five planned. “You sandbagged the first three so they didn’t count” would be his reply if you tried to argue. And trust me, I was always the first to argue. 

Justin constantly pushed me past my comfort zone. I would load the bar with a measly weight I thought was already too heavy and he would come along and add twenty more pounds, then stand there like an overlord to watch while he proved himself right. You somehow always knew when he was watching you, even when he was across the gym and your back was to him. You’d hear “Go heavier!” or “Chest up, ass back!” and knew he meant you. It was instinct and years of experience that helped him adapt his approach to each and every person that walked through his doors. It was a gift that despite the wisdom passed on, couldn’t be taught. 

I’ll never forget my first box jump. 

Box jumps scared the hell out of me. I don’t know why. In theory, it was just – jumping. Bend the knees, explode off the floor, land on a box. Easy enough. Except I just could not get my brain and my body to connect. I stuck to step ups when I could get away with it, tiny little box jumps onto a small stack of plates when Justin was looking. One day, he decided enough was enough. He dragged a box out, called me over, and said “jump.” 

“I can’t.” 

“You can.” 

“I can’t. It’s too high.” 

And so two stubborn individuals engaged in a standoff with a 20” wooden box between us. I was determined not to jump. He was determined that I would. He never raised his voice, never lost his patience, but he was stern and direct. He finally held out his arms. 

“Jump. I’ll catch you if you fall, but you won’t.” 

I rolled my eyes, bent my knees and – did my first box jump. It was easy. He laughed, said “now do nine more,” and walked off. To this day, box jumps are one of my favorite exercises. 

Justin talked me into powerlifting meets and CrossFit competitions. He became a regular at my barre studio, brought other The Gym members with him. He liked it for the core and glute work and whenever he was in my class, I would make it as hard as possible because it was the one time I could kick *his* ass for a change. He also talked me into a Strongman competition. 

Strongman was, most definitely, out of my comfort zone. I was great with a barbell. I had good technique, great form. I prided myself on being able to move well, move correctly. Strongman threw all of that out the door. There were barrels and wagon wheels and stones and even a truck to pull. I was so beat up during training that the VP of the company I worked for at the time pulled me into her office and kindly asked if I needed to talk about the bruises on my arms. I had to explain it wasn’t anything like that, just the stones I was trying and failing to lift onto a shelf taller than me a few days a week and the truck I couldn’t move more than a few inches. 

On the day of the competition, I wanted out. I had a full blown panic attack in my bathroom that morning and called my friend Hanna in tears. I wanted to withdraw. She convinced me to at least show up, so I did. And had another panic attack during warm ups. Justin took me by the shoulders, calmed me down, and said “I wouldn’t let you do this if I thought you couldn’t.” It was one of the things I knew to be absolutely true – he would push limits, but he would never ask more than what we were capable of. Looking back, I think we both knew I was not going to do well. The girls around me had been doing Strongman for a while. Most of them were heavily tatted. A lot of them had wild hair colors or shaved heads or wore shirts with vulgar sayings. Then there was me, smaller than most of them in both height and weight, a single heart tattooed on my wrist, and my blonde hair pulled into a cheerleader high ponytail with a literal ribbon wrapped around it. I was so far out of my comfort zone I needed a passport, but I did every event with Justin coaching me on. I finished second to last, and I was proud. I did it and I didn’t finish last. It is, to date, the only time I’ve been okay with not winning. 

I also swore I’d never do it again. 

I’ve successfully kept that promise so far. 

I thought about Justin last weekend. I stopped working out with him when I moved to Chapel Hill, but I would drop in when I was home, trade the occasional Facebook comment. He was one of the first people to check in when my mom died, and always a guaranteed bear hug when I saw him in person. I thought about him in passing, wondered how he was doing, forgot all about it not long after given that I was in the middle of yet another big move. On Tuesday, I learned he had passed away. 

I’ve thought about him a lot since then, and the impact he had on not just my life, but countless others. My Facebook feed was full of stories and in memoriams in the days after his passing. You always hear people say “they were such a light” or “they were a good person” when someone dies. With Justin, those things aren’t just things said in grief. They are a true reflection of who he was. 

Justin worked with special athletes and local youth that many turned away from, labeling them as “troubled.” He took several under his wing as apprentices at the gym, held special programs where he fed them, tried to teach them about life. He didn’t treat them differently, and I think that’s why they loved him. In a wheelchair? So what? Here are some dumbbells, do some bicep curls. Got into a little trouble? Big deal. You’re young. Let’s learn from it. He poured into them, saw them as individuals, met them where they were and helped them move forward. He changed how I saw them, too. Those “troubled” boys just needed someone to love them. So that’s what we did – we loved them. 

I’ve been an advocate for stepping out of comfort zones and making bold decisions for several years now. I coach women on how to do just that. It occurred to me as I reflected on what Justin meant to me that he is largely the reason I’m not afraid to be bold now. He wasn’t just teaching me about pushing limits in the gym. He taught me to push the limits in life, to be bold, to take the risk. To love people. It was never about lifting with him. Not really. I wish I would have seen that sooner so I could have said “thank you.” His gym, his programming, his coaching didn’t just change my physical body. He trained me for life. 

I’ll never meet another Justin Tooley. He’s the only person I’ll ever know that would sit on a bench eating a pint of ice cream at 6AM – it was bulking season – and talk to you about God between sets. He’s the only person that, at around 6:45AM during a bulk, would say “Y’all want to finish up this set and go to TipTop?” which was a favorite greasy breakfast stop. He’s the only coach I’ve ever had that would send a casual text in the middle of the afternoon that said something like “you want to make some of those blueberry lemon cupcakes this weekend?” as a hint that he would like me to bring in a baked good, please and thank you (also bulking season). Then cutting season would roll around and he’d start carrying around a gallon of water and programming a mile run after the workout. I still haven’t forgiven him for that, for what it’s worth. 

It’s those 6AM ice cream-fueled conversations about God that give me comfort in knowing I’ll lift with him again one day. In my mind, I can see his dog, Pigga, the true love of his life, waiting for him at the Pearly Gates, her tail wagging, him laughing that big laugh of his at the sight of her. A reunion that came too soon for those of us on earth, but that was right on time in God’s Book of Life. 

Justin really did train us for life. 

And because of that, he left the world a lot better than he found it. 

May he rest in peace until we lift together again.