"I have had quite a few injuries during my time and if you are not injured in this sport [bodybuilding], you are not doing anything"

Ronnie Coleman’s remark comes from the furnace of elite performance, where progress is forged by repeated contact with one’s limits. In top-tier bodybuilding, the body is both instrument and battlefield: muscle grows through controlled microtrauma, and the connective tissues that stabilize colossal loads endure chronic stress. The idea that “if you are not injured, you are not doing anything” elevates visible wear and tear into a badge, a tangible proof of exertion that separates dabblers from the truly committed.

There’s a psychological calculus underneath it. Extreme goals demand sacrifices that ordinary sensibilities might reject; embracing injury reframes pain as investment, not misfortune. It becomes a narrative of authenticity: only those willing to be broken deserve to be rebuilt. Coleman’s career, defined by astonishing strength and subsequent surgeries, amplifies the message, greatness exacts a toll, and paying it is part of the pact.

Yet the maxim also exposes a tension at the heart of high performance. Discomfort is necessary; damage is not. Intelligent programming, technique, recovery, and patience can stretch limits while minimizing harm. Many modern coaches argue that longevity itself is the ultimate competitive advantage, and that equating injury with effort confuses recklessness for courage. The line between adaptation and breakdown is narrow, but it exists, and crossing it repeatedly can shorten careers and diminish life after sport.

Still, the sentiment resonates beyond bodybuilding. In any pursuit where outcomes are scarce and failure is frequent, art, startups, research, the marks of struggle often stand in for progress. The danger is normalizing harm as the only honest currency of achievement. A more nuanced reading is to value exposure to risk and the willingness to enter difficult, failure-rich spaces, while insisting that skillful control of that risk is part of mastery. Pain can be evidence of work; wisdom is knowing when it signals growth and when it warns of collapse.