Talking Shit about a Pretty Sunset

It’s funny how quickly life changes. One day you know one thing to be true, and the next day it isn’t. Someone makes you really really happy, and then they shatter your heart. Something brought you all the joy in the world, but you gave it up. You took something for granted for so long, and finally realize how lucky you are to have it. How does life do it? How do you trust something that can just up and change with no warning at all? I guess maybe…you don’t. You don’t put too much faith in it, you don’t count on much. 

I know this is probably silly, but I didn’t really realize what giving up gymnastics meant to me. I’ve never been the person who was really incredibly talented at something. I’ve always been kind of good at a bunch of stuff; I never stood out, though. I played good second base in softball, I won a few science fairs, I made my high school’s dance team and my college’s cheer team, but I was never the person that others pointed out and said, “Wow, look at her.” Gymnastics was no different. I was a little too tall and a little too scared to be all that competitive at it, but I looked great doing it. And getting this new coaching job has made me realize that that was the first place that ever made me feel valuable. I was valuable to myself because I was the only person I had to rely on. I had to train for myself, I had to work through all the tears and the sweat and the blood if I wanted it to be worth it. I had to face things that scared me every single day. I had to swing bars until my hands bled. I had to force myself back to the corner of the floor and throw that tumbling pass again even if the time before I bailed and landed in a heap. I had to get back on the beam after straddling it and keep doing split leaps until they were perfect. I wanted to be the best, and no one else could get me there.

I remember the day I gave it up. I remember where my coach was sitting when he called me over. I remember the other girls looking at me weird because they’d never seen me in anything but a leotard before. I remember the card my best friend on the team wrote me. And now I’m back in the gym, and all those memories flood back in. The spring boards in the corner remind me of getting a 9.3 on vault in my very first competition ever. The smell of the mats remind me of the complete exhaustion that would set in during hour four of workout when all I wanted to do was crawl on top of an 8 incher and sleep. Getting in my car and seeing swishes of chalk on my black pants reminds me of the first time I ever made my kip and Chris gave me a dollar. 

I wish I could have stayed. I wish I still had something that required me to depend so heavily on myself to get what I wanted. I mean, life’s like that, but gymnastics was a different sort of passion. It was something I didn’t have to do, it was something hard and scary. But I wanted people to look at me and see that I wasn’t everyone else. And now I’m 21 and come home from work and my back hurts from spotting walkovers and I’ve got bruises on my hips from demonstrating back hip circles, and it hits me that I will never ever get back that dream. I love what I do, but some days it’s hard to walk in there and know that I’ll be on the outside for the rest of my life. It’s like a little kid who wants a puppy so badly, but all they can do is stare at it through the window. I should be grateful for this new opportunity in this new gym with these new people, but life changed so fast. I was so excited, and now I’m just so…jealous. I guess they were right when they said those who can’t do, teach.