I was a senior in high school, waiting to begin what could potentially be my final balance beam routine in my final competition of my 10-year gymnastics career. If I scored high enough on the beam—my strongest event—I would advance to the state competition. If not, my decade-long involvement in the sport would come to a close on this night. I was more than prepared to nail this routine and earn a spot at the highly-coveted state meet. I just needed to spend 90 seconds staying on that beam.
The hope in the room was high as I prepared to begin. My teammates, coaches, and the parents all knew this would either be my last or second-to-last routine. We all had bated breath.
The judges acknowledged that I could begin. I smiled, took a deep breath, and ran towards the springboard to mount the beam. My feet hit the four inch wide slab of wood, but not with much stability. I went to war to save myself from falling, bending my knees while my body shifted so dramatically from one side to another that “wobbly” became an understatement. I fought as hard as I could, but I couldn’t salvage it. Just as quickly as I began my routine, I ended my career. My feet hit the mat below as audible sighs echoed through the gymnasium.
I could have scratched the remaining 89 seconds of the routine, but this was it. My final routine after 10 years in the sport. With the pressure deflated, I hopped right back on the beam and did every move I’d practiced endlessly one last time. I had fun. I felt proud. I nailed 89 of 90 seconds of that routine. And: I didn’t qualify for the state competition.
I think about that final competition quite frequently, especially now, in a season of life when I’m trying to do it all—and want to be seen as someone who can do it all. I can do this, I think, until “this” becomes too much. I’m too overwhelmed, too pressured, too unsteady, or maybe just too tired. I drop several of the balls I’m juggling, take a fall, and miss the expectations I or others set for me.
Here’s the gritty truth: It feels terrible, no longer being able to keep your balance. It’s disappointing, embarrassing, and maddening. This is a thing I’ve done before and should always be able to do! Until that moment when your feet hit the landing just a millimeter off, or you don’t get enough protein, or the depression is too heavy. There’s the fall.
But then, there’s the relief.
When trying so hard to be seen as a champion, we can forget how good it feels to be human-sized.
To be a regular person who can do a lot of incredible things, but can’t do everything. I’m sad my career ended one competition early, but I loved ending it as a human being who can sometimes balance her entire self on a four-inch balance beam and who sometimes cannot. Imperfection doesn’t come with as many gold medals, but it doesn’t have to feel like losing.
