Expectation is a powerful thing.
In life – and especially in sport and fitness – people are quick to make judgments based on our appearances. For Damir Vatreš, those expectations were written for him early.
Growing up in Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Vatreš’ life changed permanently at just six years old. Speaking to Sport Manual, he told me: “I grew up in Sarajevo. When I was six years old, I lost my right arm and one eye during the war. From that moment on, nobody really saw sport as something that would ever be part of my life.”
However, that expectation — or lack of it — never defined him.
If anything, it shaped the way he eventually approached training. Vatreš wasn’t about to let other people’s expectations dictate what would be possible for him – and over the last several years, he forced his doubters to shift their mindset. Not through words, but through numbers — numbers on the scale, on the plates, on the barbell, numbers that don’t care how you look or what you’ve been told you can’t do, numbers that force people to stop seeing limitation and start recognising strength.
“I discovered lifting much later – not because I wanted to prove anyone wrong, but because I needed something powerful and honest in my life: structure, discipline, and a challenge that depended entirely on me,” he said. “The gym became the one place where my limitations didn’t define me, my effort did.”
That mindset would become the foundation of everything that followed.
Powerlifting wasn’t an obvious path. It wasn’t even planned. But once it clicked, it stuck.
Vatreš explained: “Powerlifting caught my attention because it’s brutally honest. The bar doesn’t care who you are, what you’ve been through, or what your excuses are , it only responds to strength and effort.”
At first, it was personal — just another way to push boundaries. But as the weights kept creeping up, something shifted.
“But when I realized I could pull serious weight with one hand, not as a ‘motivation story’, but on a genuinely competitive level, everything changed,” he recalled. “That was the moment I stopped seeing it as training and started treating it as a sport I could truly chase and own.”
Getting there wasn’t smooth.
There was no blueprint, no coach with ready-made answers, no system designed for what he was trying to do.
“In the beginning, they were brutal, inefficient, frustrating, and painfully slow. There was no manual, no coach who could just say, ‘Do it like this. I had to become my own experiment,” he said.
Like with so much throughout his life, every lift became another problem to solve.
“Every session was trial and error: changing grip, altering my stance, adjusting leverage, rethinking how to load the bar. I failed a lot, rep after rep, week after week,” Vatreš said. “But that’s where the real progress came from. Not from motivational quotes on the wall, but from problem solving under the bar, learning how to turn ‘impossible’ into ‘this is how I do it now.’”
And eventually, the narrative changed.
Not because people suddenly understood — but because the numbers forced them to.
“It changed the moment the numbers stopped being ‘inspiring’ and started being competitive,” he told me. “When the weight on the bar wasn’t just a feel-good story anymore, but something that many two-handed lifters genuinely struggle with, that’s when everything shifted.
“At that point, I stopped being ‘the guy lifting with one arm’ and started being ‘the guy lifting serious numbers.’ That’s when I knew what I could really do.”
Behind those numbers is a system built from scratch. Every detail intentional. Every adjustment earned.
“Everything is built around balance, bar path, and maximal efficiency. Nothing in my setup is random,” he explained. “Stance width, hip position, asymmetric loading, and grip strategy are all dialed in with purpose. I’ve had to rely on belts, straps, tensioners, and a lot of fully DIY solutions to create the stability and control that most lifters get “for free” with two hands, because nothing off the shelf was designed for what I’m doing.
“Every detail has been tested, adjusted, and refined through months of trial and error. If it’s in my setup, it’s there for a reason. Nothing is accidental.”
There were doubts — plenty of them. But they weren’t emotional. They were measured.
Vatreš told me: “Of course. Doubt hits hardest when progress stalls and the numbers stop moving. There were plenty of days when competing felt unrealistic. What kept me going wasn’t motivation or inspiration, it was stubbornness and data. If the numbers were improving, even slowly, that was enough. As long as the logbook showed progress, I stayed the course.”
That same mindset carries onto the platform. Unlike so many big characters in the sport, Vatreš remains measured – No theatrics. No grand moments. Just execution.
When I asked him what a competition day looks like for him – both physically and mentally – he told me: “Physically: calm, warm, and prepared, nothing experimental, nothing new. By the time I’m at the meet, every warm up, every cue, every setup has already been rehearsed dozens of times in training.
“Mentally: my focus gets very narrow. No hype, no drama, no ‘movie moment.’ I’m not there to get emotional; I’m there to execute. One attempt at a time, one job at a time.”
Confidence, for Vatreš, isn’t something you switch on. It’s something you build.
“For me, confidence isn’t a feeling, it’s a result. It comes from preparation,” he explained. “If my training was honest, no skipped sets, no fake PRs, no cutting corners, then confidence is automatic. I’ve already done the work, so the lift is just the proof […] The bar always tells the truth.”
And that’s ultimately what competition represents to him.
He is not seeking validation from anybody through powerlifting – only truth.
“For me, competition isn’t about validation, it’s about measurement,” he said. “I’m not stepping on the platform to find out who I am or to prove my worth to anyone. I already know who I am. The meet is simply where the work gets audited. The platform doesn’t give you identity, it just confirms how honest your training has been.”
Naturally, the respect among peers and the public would come, but only when it was earned. Vatreš stressed: “Respect wasn’t handed to me because of my story, it was earned on the platform. Once the numbers on the bar crossed a certain line and people saw that I was lifting competitively, not symbolically, acceptance followed naturally. In this sport, heavy weight speaks louder than anything else.”
That shift is where his impact became clear. Not when people noticed his physical difference — but when they stopped focusing on it. When I asked him if there were moments that made him realise the impact his achievements were having others, Vatreš told me: “Yes. It hit me when people stopped asking about my disability and started asking about my programming.
“When the conversation shifted from ‘How do you lift with one arm?’ to ‘How do you structure your training, your volume, your progression?’ That’s when I knew the focus had moved from my limitations to my performance. That’s real impact: when people stop seeing you as an exception and start seeing you as an athlete.”
His message to others is direct — and leaves no room for excuses.
“Stop waiting for permission,” he said. “Don’t wait for the perfect coach, the perfect setup, or for everyone around you to understand. Adaptation is a skill, you can learn it, refine it, and get better at it over time. Strength isn’t something you’re ‘given’. It’s built, rep by rep, problem by problem, in a body and life that are uniquely yours.”
And Vatreš’ current training routine reflects that philosophy; Structured. Purposeful. Ruthlessly efficient. When I asked him what his typical training week looks like at the moment, he told me: “Right now, I run four to five structured sessions per week, built around the deadlift as the main focus. Volume is tightly controlled, no ego work, no ‘junk’ reps.
“Every set and every rep has a clear purpose: either build strength, build skill, or build capacity. If it doesn’t serve one of those, it’s not in the program.”
Everything outside the gym follows the same standard. “Recovery is non-negotiable,” he said. “If I want to lift heavy, I have to respect sleep, rest days, and deloads as much as I respect the bar.”
Additionally, nutrition is just as functional: “I eat to perform and recover, not to cope or celebrate.”
I then ask Vatreš if there is a lift he is most proud of. “A 250 kg one-handed deadlift,” he replied. “That’s not a feel-good, inspirational number, that’s a brutal one. Most lifters with two hands will never touch that weight. For me, it’s proof that adaptation plus relentless work can take you far beyond what people think is possible.”
Moving forward, the focus is on pushing even further.
“Right now, I’m focused on pushing my competitive deadlift even further and representing para sport at the highest level,” he explained. “Beyond numbers, my goal is to keep raising the standard of what people consider ‘possible’ – not just for lifters with disabilities, but for anyone who thinks they’ve already hit their limit.”
And if there’s one thing he would change about how people see disability in sport, it’s simple: “Stop lowering the bar.”
He says he wants others to “judge athletes with disabilities by their performance, not by pity or lowered expectations”.
“Hold us to real standards, real numbers, and real competition, that’s respect.”
Featured image credit: Instagram/onehandedalpha
