Keeping our bodies in shape is essential for both physical and mental well-being. For many, this involves daily activities like walking or light exercise. However, for 33-year-old Nataliya Kuznetsova, staying in shape is an entirely different story.
Nataliya, a professional Russian bodybuilder, holds world records in arm lifting, bench pressing, and deadlifting. Her impressive physique is a testament to her dedication and hard work, making it easy to see how she earned her titles.
While opinions on appearance differ, it’s crucial to respect individual choices. People should never be ridiculed for how they look. How someone chooses to present themselves is their personal decision, and it’s worth celebrating individuality and diversity.
A Bodybuilder’s Journey
Born Nataliya Trukhina on July 1, 1991, in Chita, southeast Siberia, Russia, Nataliya grew up as an active child with a passion for physical training and combat sports. At 14, she began her bodybuilding journey, hitting the gym daily under the guidance of her coach, Alexei Ivanov. Initially, her goal wasn’t to build massive muscles but to gain strength.
Despite her modest beginnings at 80 pounds, Nataliya rapidly progressed. By the time she was 17, she weighed 150 pounds and could bench press 220 pounds. Over the years, her dedication paid off as she won numerous championships and set multiple records.
Championship Success
Nataliya’s achievements include winning the 2014 Cup of Eurasia and the 2015 Eastern Europe Cup (GPA). She is nicknamed the “World’s Most Muscular Woman” and holds records for bench pressing over 374 pounds and deadlifting 530 pounds. Standing at 5’7” and weighing over 220 pounds during the offseason, she is a remarkable force in the world of powerlifting.
Nataliya’s lifestyle revolves around constant improvement and strength-building. She shares her belief in perseverance on her social media, writing:
“It’s not about being perfect – it’s about showing up, putting in the effort, and getting the work done to achieve your vision. Every day is another opportunity to move forward.”
Beyond Bodybuilding
In 2013, Nataliya graduated from the Moscow State Academy of Physical Culture. She also performed in a Bolshoi Theatre production of Manon Lescaut. Today, she lives in Moscow with her husband, bodybuilder Vladislav Kuznetsov. The couple, who met online in 2009, married in 2015 and continue to support each other in their pursuits.
Nataliya’s journey wasn’t always easy. Early in her career, she struggled financially and often had to fund her training and competitions herself. However, her growing popularity on social media changed her fortunes. Today, she works with sponsors like Oxytropin and RPS Nutrition and has over one million Instagram followers.
Breaking Stereotypes
Despite her fame, Nataliya faces criticism and hurtful comments about her appearance. She remains unfazed, stating:
“The classical standards and norms are long gone. Even the modeling industry is very different now. My best advisor is a mirror.”
Nataliya also appreciates her fans’ support, especially the compliments and encouragement she receives from followers worldwide.
A Bright Future
In 2017, Nataliya briefly stepped away from powerlifting but returned to compete in Moscow just a year and a half later. She has since focused on coaching, aiming to help others reach their potential.
Nataliya Kuznetsova’s journey is a story of perseverance, passion, and breaking barriers. Whether you agree with her choices or not, her dedication to pursuing her dreams is undeniably inspiring.
What’s your take on Nataliya’s life choices? Share your thoughts in the comments.
After I restored the motorcycle my father had gifted me, he took it back — so I found a way to get my revenge
I caught them effortlessly, but I was confused.
“What’s this for?” I asked. They didn’t look like car keys, and I already had my mom’s old car anyway.
My dad nodded toward a dusty tarp in the corner of the garage. It had been there for as long as I could remember, covering up something that I was told not to touch.
When I pulled the tarp off, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. It was my dad’s old Harley, a ’73 Shovelhead. It was the stuff of my childhood dreams, the bike that had always seemed just out of reach.
All I had wanted to do when I was younger was steal my dad’s leather jacket and sit on the motorcycle. But he always shouted at me whenever I tried to touch it.
“If there’s one scratch on it, Seth,” he would say, “I’ll take all your spending money away.”
That was enough to keep me away from the dream bike.
“You’re giving me the Harley?” I asked, my voice a mix of disbelief and excitement.
My father shrugged it off like it was nothing.
“Yeah, why not, son?” he declared. “It hasn’t run in years, to be honest, so good luck with that. Consider it a late birthday gift, Seth.”
I could barely believe it.
I was finally going to ride that bike, and feel the engine roaring beneath me, the wind in my hair. It was going to be everything I had dreamt of and more. I was finally going to be like my dad.
I ran my hand over the cracked leather seat, taking in the gift.
“Thanks, Dad,” I said. “I promise I’ll take good care of her.”
The moment those keys were in my hand, that motorcycle became my new obsession.
“Jeez, son,” the mechanic said when I took the Harley over in a friend’s old pickup truck. “There’s a lot to be done here. But I can do the big things for you, and you’ll be able to sort out the smaller things if you’re confident enough.”
I saved every penny from my barista role at the café. I was extra polite to all my customers, hoping for large tips, ready to go straight into the motorcycle restoration fund.
Soon, my nights, weekends, and any and all free time I had were spent outside with the motorcycle. I tore it down and put it back together, better than ever, restoring old parts. I watched countless YouTube tutorials and read every manual I could find.
“What are you doing now?” my roommate, Brett, asked when I was hunched over my laptop on the couch.
“I’m looking at forums online for tips about the motorcycle,” I said.
“That’s all you do these days, buddy,” he said, chuckling.
Fourteen months later, the day finally came. I polished the last piece of chrome, stood back, and admired my work. The Harley gleamed under the garage lights, looking like it had just rolled off the assembly line.
“Good job, Seth,” I muttered to myself.
I could hardly contain my excitement as I thought about showing it to my parents, especially my dad. I imagined the pride on his face, the way his eyes would light up when he saw what I’d done.
I hoped that he would finally be proud of something I had done. But nothing prepared me for what was to come next.
I rode it over to my parents’ house, the engine purring beneath my legs like a big cat. As I parked in the driveway, I felt a rush of nerves. I hadn’t felt this anxious since I was waiting for my acceptance letter for college.
“Mom? Dad?” I called, walking into the hallway.
“We’re in the kitchen,” my mom called.
I walked into the kitchen, and there they were. My dad was drinking a cup of tea, and Mom was busy putting together a lasagna.
“I’ve got something to show you!” I said. “It’s outside.”
They followed me outside, their eyes going wide when they saw the motorcycle.
“Oh my gosh, Seth,” my dad exclaimed. “Is that the Harley? My old Harley? She looks beautiful!”
“Yes,” I said, grinning. “I’ve spent the last year working on it. What do you think?”
Before they could answer, my dad moved closer to the motorcycle. His eyes narrowed as he took it in. He ran his hands along the chrome as though he couldn’t believe his own eyes.
“You did all this?” he asked, his voice tight.
“I did!” I said, beaming proudly. “Every spare moment and extra cash went into this project. And now she’s perfect.”
For a second, I thought I saw pride flicker in his eyes, but then his expression changed. His face darkened, and I felt something change in me.
“You know, Seth,” he said slowly, “this bike is worth a hell of a lot more now. I think I was too generous when I gave it to you.”
I blinked, not understanding.
“What do you mean, Dad?”
My father cleared his throat, not meeting my eyes.
“I’m going to take it back,” he said, his tone final. “And I’ll give you $1,000 for your trouble.”
“Are you serious?” I asked, barely containing my anger.
He nodded.
“It’s only fair, Seth.”
I wanted to yell, to tell him how unfair he was being, how much time and money I’d poured into that bike. But I knew that arguing wouldn’t get me anywhere. My father was too stubborn.
“Sure,” I said. “Whatever you think is fair.”
He looked surprised that I didn’t fight him on it, but I wasn’t done with my revenge. If he wanted to play dirty, then fine. I could play that game too. I just needed to be smarter about it.
A few days later, I saw my father posting on social media about his “newly restored” motorcycle and that he was taking the Harley to an upcoming bike meet with his old biking buddies.
“Now it’s on,” I said to myself.
When the day of the meet arrived, I watched from a distance as my father rolled up on the Harley, looking every bit the proud owner of a beautiful bike. He revved the engine, drawing the attention of everyone in the parking lot.
But what he didn’t know was that I’d made a little modification of my own.
Under the seat, I’d installed a small switch—it was nothing fancy. But it was a precaution in case the Harley was ever stolen. The switch, when accessed, would cut off the fuel line with a quick flick of the remote, which was firmly planted in my hand.
I waited until he was right in the middle of the crowd, basking in the admiration, and then, from a distance, I pressed the button.
The Harley sputtered, the engine dying with a weak cough. Soon, my father’s smug grin disappeared as he tried to restart it, but the engine wouldn’t give.
The murmurs began, making their way through the crowd, and a few of his buddies laughed under their breath.
“Need a hand, Dad?” I asked when I made my way over to him.
He glared at me, but I could see the desperation in his eyes. He nodded, too embarrassed to say anything. I knelt down, pretending to fiddle with the bike for a moment before “fixing” the problem by turning off the switch.
The engine roared back to life, but by then, the damage was done.
The look of embarrassment on my dad’s face was worth every second of the work I had put into the Harley.
He handed me the keys, his jaw clenched tightly.
“It’s yours,” he said, walking away.
I smiled, knowing the Harley was mine, and so was my father’s respect, even if he couldn’t say it.
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