Welcome to Pony Club, where Ella Mason's space will change the way you think about gyms.
Walking into Preston's Pony Club Gym is like walking into someone's home.
Weightlifting equipment and kettle bells lead straight onto a kitchen lined with framed children's drawings.
One of these depicts two near-identical-looking stick figures, the left one crossed out because, according to owner Ella Mason, their son "didn't like that one".
Pony Club is not just any gym.
Warning: This story contains strong language.
Its website describes it as being "for those who would typically struggle" in a mainstream gym setting.
On-site, an unmissable sign reads:
"No fatphobia, homophobia, transphobia, racism or sexism. We say a big f***ing yes to kindness, inclusion, respect and fun."
Mason — who identifies as gender fluid and uses all pronouns — says the ground rules are designed to make everyone feel welcome, not just LGBTQIA+ people.
"It's really important that we have representation of queer and trans-owned spaces, but I firmly believe that no place should be exclusive," she says.
"Change happens by bringing all different types of people together. That's how we achieve that gentle transition of learning and respecting each other's lived experiences."
'White dudes need to be exposed to people who aren't straight white dudes'
Fergus Randall, 39, attests to this being a genuine commitment.
A straight, cisgender man, he has been a member of Pony Club for several years, and prefers it to a standard gym.
He first came at the recommendation of his partner, and admits to being sceptical.
Pony Club is a certified Olympic Weightlifting gym, while Randall was previously a powerlifter.
As he explains it, he wasn't alienated by mainstream gyms, but never felt entirely comfortable either.
"I've always been a little bit fat, and weird. I was strong, but I wasn't ripped, and I wasn't covered in tattoos … so I kept to myself."
Taking up weightlifting classes at Pony was a "humbling" experience for Randall.
"The best part is the people I'm there with," he says.
"There's no judgement. If you drop a bar, or go backwards in weight, no-one gives a stuff.
"We have a good time, we laugh, we lift each other up. It's all about the community, which was a completely alien concept for me."
Being part of Pony Club has also introduced Randall to a range of people he may have never otherwise met.
"I've got a whole bunch of trans mates now," he says.
"More people like me need the Pony Club experience.
"Straight white dudes need to be exposed to people who aren't straight white dudes.
"The sooner we break down barriers between groups — straight, queer, trans — and see everyone as humans, the better."
'It shifted my mindset about what my body could do'
Pony Club has come a long way from its humble beginnings in Reservoir, in Melbourne's inner north, more than five years ago.
Then, the gym was nothing more than an informal training space in Mason's rented garage.
The name was an in-joke.
"My partner and I used to laugh about how funny it would be to call it Pony Club, because of all the show ponies you see at regular gyms," she says.
"Like, you walk into a mainstream gym and for the most part you see all cis men around the outside, by the mirrors, doing their pump, and all the women are huddled inside, in the leftover space."
Kylie Tran, a 39-year-old librarian, trained with Mason in the early garage days.
She says Mason's classes appealed because they did away with the "no pain, no gain" mentality often encountered in a typical gym setting.
"It wasn't about pushing yourself beyond your limit, weight loss and just getting fit," she says.
"The most empowering thing was that it really shifted my mindset about what my body could do.
"It wasn't about deficit — it made me appreciate my body for what it does for me. And it turns out I'm really strong!"
Discovering her strength started to challenge some of Tran's self-perceptions.
"As a woman who is fat and a person of colour, I struggled a lot with internalised fatphobia," she says.
"I also struggled with the mainstream definition of femininity. Particularly as an Asian woman, there are certain stereotypes about being petite, being a certain size, being submissive and compliant. And my existence kind of pushed against all those things."
Tran says weightlifting at Pony taught her it was OK not to meet those stereotypical expectations.
"That's one of the really lovely things that has come out of it — the self-confidence that comes through meeting a community who appreciate you for who you are."
'I was afraid to puff'
Rose McAlister works in design and development recruiting, and echoes many of Tran's sentiments.
The 33-year-old first started Olympic weightlifting after receiving the confronting news that she was pre-diabetic.
"I'd worked in gyms when I was younger, so I'd been around that world, but I never felt connected to it," she says.
"Coming out as queer, and then also, being a bigger body, I never felt those spaces were inclusive for me.
"When I first came, I was afraid to puff, like, if I was breathing really heavily during a work-out, I would feel really nervous about it.
"But talking to Ella, they were like, 'no, breathe, take up space, allow yourself to be sweaty and loud'."
In time, McAlister began to think more holistically about her health, including changing her attitude to food.
"Once I started going to Pony, I would think about eating to fuel my work-out, instead of trying to lose weight," she says.
McAlister's blood tests have since normalised, and she is no longer classified as pre-diabetic. Her asthma has improved, and she experiences much less back pain.
"Just seeing the way my body has reacted is amazing," she says.
'We'll be there to pick her up'
By 2019, Pony Club had outgrown its garage location and moved to bigger quarters in adjoining suburb, Preston.
After a series of community working bees, the gym was ready to open the day Melbourne entered its first COVID-19 lockdown.
"A lot of us kept our memberships even though we couldn't go into the space," McAlister recalls.
"We all chipped in to get the coaches a nice little pamper experience as well. We just wanted Ella to know that as much as she puts in to pick us up, we'll be there to pick her up too."
Off the back of community support, Pony Club survived, and in September 2022, celebrated another milestone.
In an Australian first, the gym hosted a non-gendered weightlifting competition.
Thirty-three-year-old trans man and community mental health worker Andy Pullar was a participant, lifting a personal best of 51kg in the clean and jerk.
It was the first time since transitioning that he had taken part in competitive sport.
"It felt like a really important moment to both be an example of, but also feel in myself that trans people belong in sport," Andy says.
"Sport is so much more about participating in a community than it is about beating anybody."
But while lifting 51kg might be an impressive physical feat, Pullar says the best thing about coming to Pony Club has been the benefits to his mental health.
"So many queer people have such negative connotations associated with exercise, whether that's because we were picked last in PE class, the pressure to meet Grindr standards, or whatever it is," he says.
"In my case, I always expected to die young, because there just wasn't a future for me, but all of a sudden I realised I was trans, and I could actually like my life and my body, and continue being alive. I realised I had to look after myself, because I was actually going to get older.
"We're here because we haven't found a space before. Ella has made that space, and I'm going to fight like hell to keep it. I need it."
'It works'
Connor Borchard-Burns, Pullar's partner, was in attendance that day cheering him on.
Early last year, the Preston-based couple made the decision to go to Pony Club together, despite Borchard-Burns's initial reluctance.
The 28-year-old librarian lives with disability and chronic illness, including fibromyalgia, endometriosis and chronic fatigue — a "rather debilitating" combination, as she puts it.
"I spend a long time not being present in my body," she says.
"I think some of that is because trauma lives in the body, and also because my body has never been particularly functional, and makes my life pretty miserable sometimes.
"It's still wild, and makes no sense to me, that going and doing more movement helps my pain and fatigue, but it works."
After a bout of COVID, however — which then turned into long COVID — Borchard-Burns was forced to take a break from the gym, an experience she describes as "gutting".
That was until Pony introduced "slow strength" classes, designed for those who would like to take things slower than an ordinary strength and conditioning class, or are affected by sensory overload.
It made all the difference.
"What I love about Pony is that it's a gym for everyone, and that doesn't just mean in a queer sense," she says.
"Going to slow classes has meant that if I can't do a particular movement, they'll help me find one I can do. And I'm not made to feel like the dumb remedial kid; the weird one in a corner doing something different. I'm still included and made to feel part of the class."
Borchard-Burns says Pony's gift has been an increasing acceptance of her body.
"It has felt really amazing for me to actually feel proud of my body — and not just hate it, because I spend a lot of time resenting my body," she says.
"It has helped me to be kinder to myself, and more forgiving of my body, because it has its limitations.
"It made me realise that we're in this together, for the long haul. There's no getting out of this body.
"So if we work together, and if I can be in a space where my body doesn't feel like a burden or a liability, we can improve things."
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Credits
Words: Kate O'Halloran
Photographs: Elsie El-Asamar, Ella Mason, Connor Borchard-Burns, Rose McAlister, Andy Pullar, Fergus Randall, Kylie Tran
Editing and production: Johanna McDiarmid
