Lifestyle
How this LA gym became a refuge for the trans community
Candace Hansen, a PhD candidate in musicology at UCLA, recalls being harassed and forced out of a women’s restroom at their hometown 24-Hour Fitness a few months ago.
At the gym, located in Garden Grove, Hansen says they were met with unwelcoming and leering stares before entering the facility. The gendered bathroom presented a thorny dilemma: which would be the least offensive choice for other patrons, and the least threatening for Hansen? Once inside the women’s bathroom, Hansen says an older woman started yelling, “You’re a man! You’re a man!” More women joined in, screaming and advancing until Hansen was driven out.
Hansen explained the situation to the 24-Hour Fitness staff, who were sympathetic. They escorted Hansen back to the locker room to collect their belongings and offered a private place to change. “It was next to old pool parts and supplies for a kid’s swimming class,” Hansen recalls. “It was pretty dehumanizing and sad.”
Everybody Gym’s gender neutral locker room includes private showers and changing stations.
(Ronaldo Bolanos/Los Angeles Times)
Candace Hansen, 39, punches a boxing bag at Everybody Gym.
(Ronaldo Bolanos/Los Angeles Times)
The experience deepened Hansen’s gratitude for the gym they frequent in Los Angeles, Everybody Gym. Everybody Gym, which has been operating in Los Angeles for more than 10 years, like its name implies— is inclusive to all.
Sam Rypinski founded Everybody Gym in January of 2017, a few months after Donald Trump was elected president for the first time. As a trans man, Rypinski says that they experienced discrimination and discomfort at other gyms and yearned to connect with the trans community. “I remember a time when there wasn’t any access to healthcare. There wasn’t access to support. There wasn’t an internet where you could find community.”
Recognizing the need for solidarity, Rypinski created Everybody Gym, a space where queer people and their allies could coexist. “I’ve always been passionate about fitness, and working out has been critical for my well-being and feeling safe, feeling confident and feeling good in my body. I wanted to bring that to L.A.,” says Rypinski.
The key to its endurance, Rypinski explains, is creating a welcoming environment. “Even the burliest, cis-dude gym rats are coming up to me all the time and thanking me for creating a space where they feel safe to work out,” Rypinski says.
Everybody Gym founder Sam Rypinski inside the facility’s gender-neutral locker room.
(Ronaldo Bolanos/Los Angeles Times)
It’s worth noting that in 2025, hundreds of bills have been introduced at the federal level aimed at restricting trans rights. These bills have targeted gender-affirming care, bathroom access and trans people’s participation in sports. An executive order issued by Trump has required passports only to be issued to genders assigned at birth — discriminating against trans people. In December of 2025, the House passed a bill that would ban providing gender-affirming care for minors.
“As people believe they’re losing a certain control over their political life because the world has stopped catering to hatred, they look to the smallest place that they can control,” says Hansen, who has been tracking anti-trans legislation as part of their PhD. “This year is the most anti-trans legislation in the history of America.”
Sonny Koch is a trans trainer who has worked at the gym for eight years. “It makes it feel that much more important that we have this space, especially at this time where trans people are under attack,” says Koch, “It feels scary out there. It’s dangerous. It’s not just working out, it feels like a movement where we’re doing something bigger than that.”
As a trans trainer at a previous gym, Koch recounts some uncomfortable moments surrounding his pronoun use. “It’s been the biggest life-changing experience to be able to train in a space that welcomes trans people,” says Koch.
Trainer Sonny Koch, 36, smiles after leading a workout class.
(Ronaldo Bolanos/Los Angeles Times)
One of the distinct features of the gym is its gender-neutral changing room, which Rypinski says is the first of its kind in the country. There are private changing stalls and showers, but the common area is open to people of all gender expressions. “We didn’t want there to be any awkward choices for folks who may normally feel like they have to make a choice that isn’t really in alignment with their identity,” says Rypinski.
During the COVID-19 pandemic, Everybody Gym transitioned to a digital video-on-demand service called “Homebody.” Beginning in 2020, the gym started hosting a digital catalog of its classes. Since then, they have expanded their digital presence, shooting tutorials on a stage. “‘It’s a way to be a member anywhere,” Rypinski explains. His aim is for it to be especially beneficial for transgender people, both nationally and internationally, who aren’t always able to access a welcoming community where they live. “We’ve donated memberships to folks in the South and in affected areas where they don’t have healthcare or resources. We’ve partnered with organizations and offer those as free memberships to folks across the country,” he adds.
The gym’s holistic approach to wellness also extends to staff. Paulo Diaz, one of Everybody’s trainers, was working as a pizza cook when he discovered Everybody Gym at a trans job fair. After conversations with Rypinski, Diaz earned his trainer certification sponsored by the gym. “I have never heard of a gym doing that — paying for a person to become a trainer.”
In his new career as a trainer, Diaz had found the courage to explore his other interest — wrestling. “Wrestling is one of the most controversial sports for trans people to be in. If it hadn’t been for Sam and Everybody sponsoring me to become a trainer, I would never have the knowledge or confidence to wrestle,” Diaz adds.
Trainer Koch, left, leads a class at Everybody Gym.
(Ronaldo Bolanos/Los Angeles Times)
Everybody’s commitment to strengthening the community reaches beyond the queer community. As Glassell Park is home to many Latinx immigrants, Everybody Gym prioritizes Spanish-speaking staff at the front desk. “We’re trying to make it clear that this is a safe space for immigrants too,” says Rypinski. “We take into consideration all of the ways gyms fail, not only in terms of gender and kind of binary spaces, but size, age, ability, ethnicity and economic situations. We try to make this affordable.”
In the years since Hansen discovered the gym, it has become something of a home for them, witnessing them through disappointments, triumphs and even grief. “It became this amazing landing pad for me in terms of giving myself the room to feel stable in who I was: emotionally, spiritually and physically.”
Beyond the elliptical machines, the sweat-inducing yoga classes or weights, it’s the community that makes Everybody Gym strong. “You hear people gossiping in the locker room, or you hear about cool art shows that are happening or dance parties,” says Hansen. “I always end up making friends.”
Sunday Puzzle
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This week’s challenge
Today’s puzzle is a tribute to Mimi. Every answer is a familiar two word phrase or name in which each word starts with the letters MI-.
Ex. Assignment for soldiers –> MILITARY MISSION
1. Pageant title for a contestant from Detroit
2. One of the Twin Cities
3. Nickname for the river through New Orleans
4. Super short skirt
5. Neighborhood in Los Angeles that contains Museum Row
6. Just over four times the distance from the earth to the moon
7. Goateed sing-along conductor of old TV
8. American financier who pioneered so-called “junk bonds”
9. Little accident
10. Land-based weapon in America’s nuclear arsenal
11. In “Snow White,” the evil queen’s words before “on the wall”
Last week’s challenge
Last week’s challenge comes from Benita Rice, of Salem, Ore. Name a famous foreign landmark (5,4). Change the eighth letter to a V and rearrange the result to make an adjective that describes this landmark. What landmark is it?
Answer
Notre Dame –> Renovated
Winner
Chee Sing Lee of Bangor, Maine
This week’s challenge
This week’s challenge comes from James Ellison, of Jefferson City, Mo. Think of a popular movie of the past decade. Change the last letter in its title. The result will suggest a lawsuit between two politicians of the late 20th century — one Republican and one Democrat. What’s the movie and who are the people?
If you know the answer to the challenge, submit it below by Thursday, April 23 at 3 p.m. ET. Listeners whose answers are selected win a chance to play the on-air puzzle.
This story is part of Image’s April’s Thresholds issue, a tour of L.A. architecture as it’s actually experienced.
A landmark is a landmark because it tells you that you’re home now — the piece of earth you’ve chosen to inhabit saying, “You’ve made it back, congratulations.” We identify our cities with their landmarks, and because we identify with our cities, we identify with the landmarks too. They are us and we are them, mirroring each other through eternity. A city like New York or Chicago, with the Chrysler Building, the Bean, etc., has landmarks that exist in the world’s popular consciousness. But L.A.’s most cherished landmarks belong to us and us alone, a secret you’re let in on if you live here long enough and pay attention.
The Fashion Nova baddie in horizontal sprawl off the Vertigo, for example, is an emblem for those in the know. Our twisted version of a capitalist guardian angel, patron saint of spandex in a cropped matching set. Welcome to El Pueblo de Nuestra Señora la Reina de los Ángeles de Fashion Nova. Merging on the 110 South from the 10 East while the sunset burns and traffic thickens is a miracle in more ways than one, and in the spirit of compulsively performing the sign of the cross when you pass a church on the freeway, this billboard is deserving of its own acknowledgment.
It may not be the landmark L.A. asked for, but in Sayre Gomez’s painting “Vertigo,” you begin to understand why it’s the one we deserve. At the opening for “Precious Moments,” Gomez’s solo show at David Kordansky, the room was vibrating. A game of energetic ping-pong unfolded underneath the gallery’s fluorescent light, beams of identification, recollections or stabs of grief bouncing off each piece in the exhibition. People were seeing hyperspecific parts of a city they love reflected in a hyperspecific way — for better and for worse. Recognition has two edges and they both happen to be sharp. Gomez twists the knife deeper for a good cause: He wants you not just to look but to really see.
In his work exist iconic signs of beloved local establishments — like the Playpen — the blinding glint reflecting off downtown’s skyline, telephone poles regarded as totems. The line to see Gomez’s replica of L.A.’s graffiti towers, “Oceanwide Plaza,” snaked through the gallery’s courtyard. Once inside, at least three graffiti writers whose names were blasted on the replica pointed it out proudly, even gave out stickers to take home. The truth can be beautiful and it can be ugly — in this case it’s both — on the flip side showing up in the form of smog, tattered flags and an abandoned graffiti tower that starkly represents the pitfalls of capitalism and greed, a neon arrow pointing to the homelessness crisis.
Because the Vertigo is something everybody who lives here recognizes as central to a sort of framework of Los Angeles. And I think the encampment has become that as well. It’s connecting these integral components — something that’s more revelatory and more fun with something that’s more grave.
— Sayre Gomez
In the main gallery, I was stuck on “Vertigo.” On the 12-foot canvas, my eye went to the place out of focus: the thin strip of billboard in the background featuring a young woman with sand-dune hips, patent knee-high boots and long black hair laid up on her side, wearing cat ears and a tiger bodysuit as flush as second skin. The model made the kind of eye contact that felt dangerous — might cause an accident if you’re not careful. “#1 Halloween Destination … FASHION NOVA,” it read. I knew her, anyone who has driven through the two main arteries of Los Angeles knows her. The black-and-white smiley motif of the Vertigo, an events space, sat right next to her face, just happy to be there, it seemed, above a painted sign that says “Ready to Party?”
The sky was the color of cotton candy, but the stale kind that’s been hardening in a plastic bag for days after the fair. Something rancid about it. In the foreground of the painting was a car encampment with a tattered floral sheet woven through the windows, cloth tarps and couch cushions creating a shield against the elements. Small plastic children’s toys lined at the top of the car — dinosaurs and dump trucks and sharks — creating their own shrunken skyline in front of the Vertigo, signaling that young kids likely lived there. It’s less juxtaposition for juxtaposition’s sake and more an accurate reflection of the breakneck duality of living in a place like L.A.
Even angels exist within the context of their environments. Our Fashion Nova baddie hangs off the Vertigo, a building that has used its ad space as physical clickbait and political posturing for over a decade. It’s promoting the kind of fast fashion brand that’s been regarded as a case study on the industry’s environmental impact. In the years the billboard has been up, it’s looked over dozens and dozens of car encampments like the one depicted in Gomez’s piece.
She feels dubious, yes. But no less like ours.
Julissa James: I’ve lived in L.A. for 13 years now. For me, the city and the architecture of the city is less the Frank Lloyd Wrights and Frank Gehrys — there’s that — but other landmarks that signal, “Oh, I’m home.” The Fashion Nova baddie above the Vertigo has always been that for me. Your piece is layered and there’s so much more to it than just that, but that’s the first thing I saw and was like, “Whoa. I need to talk to Sayre. We need to talk about ‘Vertigo.’”
Sayre Gomez: It’s like L.A.’s Statue of Liberty. It’s the city of anti-landmarks, you know what I mean? I mean, there’s the Hollywood sign, which I think is so telling, because it’s the remnants of a real estate venture. The city is built by real estate schemes and 100 years later we’re feeling the effects of it. You’ve got empty skyscrapers and a massive homeless catastrophe. L.A. doesn’t really have real landmarks. It has anti-landmarks.
JJ: When did the Fashion Nova billboard above the Vertigo click for you as something that felt representative of the city, or something that you wanted to depict?
SG: My studio is in Boyle Heights, so I pass that billboard multiple times a week. This is my 20th year in L.A. and that building’s always been a big mystery to me. It was empty when I moved here before this guy Shawn Farr bought it and turned it into Casa Vertigo. I think he probably makes more money on it with the ad space than anything. I know nobody who has ever been there. Very mysterious to me. So that’s what I was drawn to.
(Paul Salveson from David Kordansky Gallery)
The Vertigo has always been mysterious to me. And that whole fashion industry is mysterious to me — the kind of shmatta, American Apparel-adjacent, or maybe coming out of the wake of that. These kinds of businesses, or the representations of these businesses, how do they function and how do they flourish? Is it aboveboard? What more perfectly encapsulates that than that building? It’s this weird thing you can’t quite figure out but somehow it has a lot of money and then it’s an event space, supposedly billed as that. Clearly it’s this big ad thing, and I’m very interested in the changing dynamics of capital. The capital of yesteryear, which was based on the brick and mortar, where things are being made in a specific location, maybe on an assembly line or in a specific way, to a kind of capital that is based solely on advertising or on viewership. These beautiful buildings acting as pedestals for some kind of ad space, you know? It becomes an anti-landmark for me. Something where I’m like, “Oh, there’s that thing again.”
JJ: It’s this gorgeous Beaux Arts building …
SG: It’s a Freemason building!
JJ: When I’ve talked to some people about the Vertigo, they’re like, “the Fashion Nova building?”
SG: They always have the woman in the same pose — same pose, different clothes. If you remember before Fashion Nova, they would have these provocative ad campaigns or provocative slogans. “Twerk Miley” was up, remember that? They did a Trump one: “TRUMP NOW.” They did one for Kanye when he ran for president. The 10 and the 110 are literally the crossroads of the city, so it’s really poised to be a special building. It has a special designation because of the location.
JJ: Talk to me about the process of doing this piece. Where did it start and how did it evolve?
SG: I was cruising around that vicinity trying to see if I could get a good vantage point to take photos of Vertigo. And then I stumbled upon this car — the car that’s in the foreground of the painting. Anytime I see an encampment that has kids’ toys, things that reference back to the lives of children, it hits hard. But I like to lay it all out there. I like to make things confrontational. I want it to be difficult. The painting isn’t based on a one-to-one photo [Gomez paints from a composite rendering of images he’s taken around town], but I knew that I wanted to use that car, and I knew I wanted to get the Vertigo building, and so I started just messing around with different iterations. I could never find a good angle to take a good photo of the building, so I just went on Vertigo’s website and I was like, “I’m just using these.” I switched the sky and put a more moody, atmospheric sky in.
JJ: Which I loved, because we know that feeling — you’re merging onto the 110 and you see a beautiful sunset. The euphoria of like, “L.A. is the best city in the world.” But you know what? What I found so interesting about your piece is that it was revealing to me about myself, but also about so many of us that live in L.A. and have lived here for years and have developed a jadedness. When I saw your piece, immediately I was like, “Oh my God, the Vertigo! The Vertigo! The Vertigo!” And then I was like, “OK, wait, hold on, there’s so much more going on here.” But the fact that my eye went to that first instead of the car encampment, the kids’ toys, brought up a lot of questions about my own relationship to the city and the things that we choose to see, the things that maybe we’ve seen so much of that we subconsciously filter it out. Why was it important for you to put these two things up against each other in this way?
SG: Because the Vertigo is something everybody who lives here recognizes as central to a sort of framework of Los Angeles. And I think the encampment has become that as well. It’s connecting these integral components — something that’s more revelatory and more fun with something that’s more grave. That’s what I’m doing in my work at large. I use the sunsets and the beauty to create a dialogue, to entice people to sort of look a little bit at how things are contextualized, how things act, what’s actually happening. I don’t make things in a vacuum. I was working on this show and I was going to really push this agenda of incorporating more of my experience with my kids into the work. That’s also a double-edged sword. I wanted to interject some levity, because the work can get so dark. I wanted to bring in some iconography from their world and things that they get excited about. When you’re juxtaposing that with really stark things, it becomes darker. I want to thicken the stock a little bit. Make things a little more complex.
Phil Pritchard of the Hockey Hall of Fame works the 2019 NHL Awards at the Mandalay Bay Events Center on June 19, 2019 in Las Vegas, Nevada. (Photo by Bruce Bennett/Getty Images)
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This week’s show was recorded in Chicago with host Peter Sagal, judge and guest scorekeeper Alzo Slade, Not My Job guest Phil Pritchard and panelists Alonzo Bodden, Adam Burke, and Dulcé Sloan. Click the audio link above to hear the whole show.
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The Don Vs The Poppa; World’s Worst Doctor; Should We Eat That?
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Our panelists tell three stories about someone missing a huge opportunity in the news, only one of which is true.
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The Trump Dump and Air Traffic Control Becomes Animal Control
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