When I left China for the U.S. in 2016, all I had was a student visa, two suitcases, and a whole lot of hope. I was 27, single, and obsessed with strength training. Not the Instagram-influencer kind of obsession. I mean the kind where you memorize squat angles and cry when you hit a plateau. Training was how I stayed sane in college, how I found my people, and, later, how I started my life in a country that didn’t always feel like home. My gym became my first community I couldn’t afford much back then. Rented a room in El Cajon. Picked up weekend gigs fixing treadmills and setting up racks. But my evenings were sacred—I trained at a small local gym owned by a grumpy but kind guy named Rick who called me “leg guy” because, well, I skipped upper body more than I should admit. Fast-forward a few years. I’d saved up, married the love of my life, and opened my own micro-gym—a 700-square-foot space behind a Vietnamese bakery. We catered to “serious but humble” lifters. Peopl...