Commentary
From heroin and homelessness to Cirque stardom
How gymnastics helped save me from addiction

Joe Putignano (Photo by Thomas Synnamon)
I have had so many athletic setbacks in my life that you might think I would have given up a long time ago, but something deep inside me urged me to push through it.
As a young child I trained in gymnastics. I loved it and sensed that this was my purpose in life. When I was flipping in the air I felt as if there was a boundless energy inside me, like the wind, and I wanted to chase that feeling forever.
During the beginning of my athletic career I competed and won many gymnastics competitions, and had even been invited to the Olympic Training Center camp in Colorado Springs. I was dedicated, strong and driven, but then, without warning, I had a terrible asthma attack that landed me in the hospital for several weeks. I had suffered from asthma prior to this attack, but had usually managed my symptoms with medication. However, this attack was life threatening. It set me back athletically.
I was bedridden and put on strong corticosteroids, which caused me to retain water and gain weight. Because I couldn’t breathe, my cardiovascular system rapidly fell out of shape. I tried exercising in the hospital, against medical advice, once the nurses left my room, knowing that while I laid there in a hospital bed, other kids were out there training. If I didn’t keep up, they were going to win.
It took a long time to fully recover, but I fought my way back into shape. I went to the Olympic Training Center camp and was back in competitive action, but another debilitating asthma attack sent me straight back to the hospital for almost a month. By the time I recovered from this attack, I was so out of shape that even my teammates were shocked. A very small part of me wanted to quit. I was embarrassed, and I truly believed I could never get back in shape again; however my passion for gymnastics was louder than the self-doubt. I trained as if my entire life depended on it.
Even though I continued to train and compete in gymnastics, I stepped onto a sinister path leading to substance abuse. Like many teenagers, I used substances recreationally, and found great comfort in the relief they gave me. They quieted the pressure and desire to be the best. It was the mid-90s — the height of the rave era — and it was so compelling to me that I marched right into it and began abusing every club drug I could find, along with cocaine and benzodiazepines. My addiction crushed my passion and I traded happiness for the darkness of addiction.
At 18, I didn’t care about anything and I believed I was living a life of freedom, only to get locked into the jail cell of addiction that ended with me becoming a homeless heroin addict, continuing to use for 10 more years. I left my inner athlete in the shadows and never wanted to see or perform another acrobatic skill again.
Addiction isn’t glamorous or fun; I tried to get clean for 10 years and was in and out of 12-step programs and rehabs. At 27, I went to my fourth rehab. My counselor suggested I do something that brought me passion. I knew that passion was gymnastics. I was too ashamed to return to the sport at which I once excelled; I told myself I was too old and broken to start over. Her suggestion though blossomed into an idea, which wildly grew into action and on that day in rehab, I was doing pushups and handstands.
I knew I would never compete again, but loved the sport and artistry for what it was. I had been smoking cigarettes and shooting heroin for years. I knew getting back into shape wasn’t going to be easy or fun, but for some reason, that repressed, stifled, athlete deep inside me stepped forward from the shadows, claiming its former presence.
The obsession to use slowly faded and passion occupied the space the drugs once inhabited. I trained every waking moment, and my body was in agony. I had always been intrigued by contortionists, and began training with one. I had a few relapses during those years, but I continued to train. It was awful because I would become dope sick, training in extreme, painful flexibility, and it felt like a demon was braiding my spinal column, but still I focused on the light at the end of the tunnel.
I stayed in recovery, becoming a contortionist and gymnast on a Broadway show. Realizing that goal was a turning point in my life; I wasn’t too old or too broken. From there I continued on.
At 32, I embarked on the journey of a lifetime for an acrobat, performing as the Crystal Man in Cirque du Soleil’s Totem. The Crystal Man character was developed around my own story, and I performed in more than 1,000 shows. While on tour with Cirque du Soleil, I wrote my memoir “Acrobaddict.” I wanted to share my experience, strength and hope with others who may struggle with addiction, self-doubt and depression.
As I look back at all those times I could have easily justified giving up and giving in, but I am reminded of how lucky I am and continue to try and persevere. The closest I have ever come to knowing myself, who I truly am, has been at my lowest points in life, because it is then, and only then, that I discover what I am made of.
Joe Putignano is a performing artist and contortionist who has performed in more than 1,000 shows with Cirque du Soleil. He is the author of ‘Acrobaddict.’
Today, on World AIDS Day, we honor the resilience, courage, and dignity of people living with HIV everywhere especially refugees, asylum seekers, and queer displaced communities across East Africa and the world.
For many, living with HIV is not just a health journey it is a journey of navigating stigma, borders, laws, discrimination, and survival.
Yet even in the face of displacement, uncertainty, and exclusion, queer people living with HIV continue to rise, thrive, advocate, and build community against all odds.
To every displaced person living with HIV:
• Your strength inspires us.
• Your story matters.
• You are worthy of safety, compassion, and the full right to health.
• You deserve a world where borders do not determine access to treatment, where identity does not determine dignity, and where your existence is celebrated not criminalized.
Let today be a reminder that:
• HIV is not a crime.
• Queer identity is not a crime.
• Seeking safety is not a crime.
• Stigma has no place in our communities.
• Access to treatment, care, and protection is a human right.
As we reflect, we must recommit ourselves to building systems that protect not punish displaced queer people living with HIV. We must amplify their voices, invest in inclusive healthcare, and fight the inequalities that fuel vulnerability.
Hope is stronger when we build it together.
Let’s continue to uplift, empower, and walk alongside those whose journeys are too often unheard.
Today we remember.
Today we stand together.
Today we renew hope.
Abraham Junior lives in the Gorom Refugee Settlement in South Sudan.
Commentary
Perfection is a lie and vulnerability is the new strength
Rebuilding life and business after profound struggles
I grew up an overweight, gay Black boy in West Baltimore, so I know what it feels like not to fit into a world that was not really made for you. When I was 18, my mother passed from congestive heart failure, and fitness became a sanctuary for my mental health rather than just a place to build my body. That is the line I open most speeches with when people ask who I am and why I started SWEAT DC.
The truth is that little boy never really left me.
Even now, at 42 years old, standing 6 feet 3 inches and 225 pounds as a fitness business owner, I still carry the fears, judgments, and insecurities of that broken kid. Many of us do. We grow into new seasons of life, but the messages we absorbed when we were young linger and shape the stories we tell ourselves. My lack of confidence growing up pushed me to chase perfection as I aged. So, of course, I ended up in Washington, D.C., which I lovingly call the most perfection obsessed city in the world.
Chances are that if you are reading this, you feel some of that too.
D.C. is a place where your resume walks through the door before you do, where degrees, salaries, and the perfect body feel like unspoken expectations. In the age of social media, the pressure is even louder. We are all scrolling through each other’s highlight reels, comparing our behind the scenes to someone else’s curated moment. And I am not above it. I have posted the perfect photo with the inspirational “God did it again” caption when I am feeling great and then gone completely quiet when life feels heavy. I am guilty of loving being the strong friend while hating to admit that sometimes I am the friend who needs support.
We are all caught in a system that teaches us perfection or nothing at all. But what I know for sure now is this: Perfection is a lie and vulnerability is the new strength.
When I first stepped into leadership, trying to be the perfect CEO, I found Brené Brown’s book, “Daring Greatly” and immediately grabbed onto the idea that vulnerability is strength. I wanted to create a community at SWEAT where people felt safe enough to be real. Staff, members, partners, everyone. “Welcome Home” became our motto for a reason. Our mission is to create a world where everyone feels confident in their skin.
But in my effort to build that world for others, I forgot to build it for myself.
Since launching SWEAT as a pop up fundraiser in 2015, opening our first brick and mortar in 2017, surviving COVID, reemerging and scaling, and now preparing to open our fifth location in Shaw in February 2026, life has been full. Along the way, I went from having a tight trainer six pack to gaining nearly 50 pounds as a stressed out entrepreneur. I lost my father. I underwent hip replacement surgery. I left a relationship that looked fine on paper but was not right. I took on extra jobs to keep the business alive. I battled alcoholism. I faced depression and loneliness. There are more stories than I can fit in one piece.
But the hardest battle was the one in my head. I judged myself for not having the body I once had. I asked myself how I could lead a fitness company if I was not in perfect shape. I asked myself how I could be a gay man in this city and not look the way I used to.
Then came the healing.
A fraternity brother said to me on the phone, “G, you have to forgive yourself.” It stopped me in my tracks. I had never considered forgiving myself. I only knew how to push harder, chase more, and hide the cracks. When we hung up, I cried. That moment opened something in me. I realized I had not neglected my body. I had held my life and my business together the best way I knew how through unimaginable seasons.
I stopped shaming myself for not looking like my past. I started honoring the new ways I had proven I was strong.
So here is what I want to offer anyone who is in that dark space now. Give yourself the same grace you give everyone else. Love yourself through every phase, not just the shiny ones. Recognize growth even when growth simply means you are still here.
When I created SWEAT, I hoped to build a home where people felt worthy just as they are, mostly because I needed that home too. My mission now is to carry that message beyond our walls and into the city I love. To build a STRONGER DC.
Because strength is not perfection. Strength is learning to love an imperfect you.
With love and gratitude, Coach G.
Gerard Burley, also known as Coach G, is a D.C.-based fitness entrepreneur.
Commentary
Elusive safety: what new global data reveals about gender, violence, and erasure
Movements against gender equality, lack of human rights data contributing factors.
“My identity could be revealed, people can say whatever they want [online] without consequences. [Hormone replacement therapy] is illegal here so I’m just waiting to find a way to get out of here.”
-Anonymous respondent to the 2024 F&M Global Barometers LGBTQI+ Perception Index from Iraq, self-identified as a transgender woman and lesbian
As the campaign for 16 Days Against Gender-Based Violence begins, it is a reminder that gender-based violence (GBV) — both on– and offline — not only impacts women and girls but everyone who has been harmed or abused because of their gender or perceived gender. New research from the Franklin & Marshall (F&M) Global Barometers and its report A Growing Backlash: Quantifying the Experiences of LGBTQI+ People, 2022-2024 starkly show trends of declining safety among LGBTQI+ persons around the world.
This erosion of safety is accelerated by movements against gender equality and the disappearance of credible human rights data and reporting. The fight against GBV means understanding all people’s lived realities, including those of LGBTQI+ people, alongside the rights we continue to fight for.
We partnered together while at USAID and Franklin & Marshall College to expand the research and evidence base to better understand GBV against LGBTQI+ persons through the F&M Global Barometers. The collection of barometers tracks the legal rights and lived experiences of LGBTQI+ persons from 204 countries and territories from 2011 to the present. With more than a decade of data, it allows us to see how rights have progressed and receded as well as the gaps between legal protections and lived experiences of discrimination and violence.
This year’s data reveals alarming trends that highlight how fear and violence are, at its root, gendered phenomena that affect anyone who transgresses traditional gender norms.
LGBTQI+ people feel less safe
Nearly two-thirds of countries experienced a decline in their score on the F&M Global Barometers LGBTQI+ Perception Index (GBPI) from 2022-2024. This represents a five percent drop in global safety scores in just two years. With almost 70 percent of countries receiving an “F” grade on the GBPI, this suggests a global crisis in actual human rights protections for LGBTQI+ people.
Backsliding on LGBTQI+ human rights is happening everywhere, even in politically stable, established democracies with human rights protections for LGBTQI+ people. Countries in Western Europe and the Americas experienced the greatest negative GBPI score changes globally, 74 and 67 percent, respectively. Transgender people globally reported the highest likelihood of violence, while trans women and intersex people reported the highest levels of feeling very unsafe or unsafe simply because of who they are.
Taboo of gender equality
Before this current administration dismantled USAID, I helped create an LGBTQI+ inclusive whole-of-government strategy to prevent and respond to GBV that highlighted the unique forms of GBV against LGBTQI+ persons. This included so-called ‘corrective’ rape related to actual or perceived sexual orientation, gender identity, or expression” and so-called ‘conversion’ therapy practices that seek to change or suppress a person’s gender identity or expression, sexual orientation, or sex characteristics. These efforts helped connect the dots in understanding that LGBTQI+ violence is rooted in the same systems of inequality and power imbalances as the broader spectrum of GBV against women and girls.
Losing data and accountability
Data that helps better understand GBV against LGBTQI+ persons is also disappearing. Again, the dismantling of USAID meant a treasure trove of research and reports on LGBTQI+ rights have been lost. Earlier this year, the US Department of State removed LGBTQI+ reporting from its annual Human Rights Reports. These played a critical role in providing credible sources for civil society, researchers, and policymakers to track abuses and advocate for change.
If violence isn’t documented, it’s easier for governments to deny it even exists and harder for us to hold governments accountable. Yet when systems of accountability work, governments and civil society can utilize data in international forums like the UN Universal Periodic Review, the Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination Against Women, and the Sustainable Development Goals to assess progress and compliance and call for governments to improve protections.
All may not be lost if other countries and donors fill the void by supporting independent data collection and reporting efforts like the F&M Global Barometers and other academic and civil society monitoring. Such efforts are essential to the fight against GBV: The data helps show that the path toward safety, equality, and justice is within our reach if we’re unafraid of truth and visibility of those most marginalized and impacted.
Jay Gilliam (he/him/his) was the Senior LGBTQI+ Coordinator at USAID and is a member of the Global Outreach Advisory Council of the F&M Global Barometers.
Susan Dicklitch-Nelson (she/her/hers) is the founder of the F&M Global Barometers and Professor of Government at Franklin & Marshall College.
