Through the eyes of a gymnast
If ever your in doubt about why you do gymnastics, read this, from the secret diary of gymnast...
I won’t lie — among my team mates, I’m neither the strongest nor the most flexible, and neither the most talented nor the most dexterous. Yet I continue to train despite the workload of junior year and the numerous commitments that demand my attention.
I won’t lie — among my team mates, I’m neither the strongest nor the most flexible, and neither the most talented nor the most dexterous. Yet I continue to train despite the workload of junior year and the numerous commitments that demand my attention.
I’m also not the most in
love with the sport — that’s my coach.
I’m a combination of all of the above, plus a bit more. I train because, quite simply, I love rhythmic.
This was, however, not always the case. I used to dread training, that time when I’d be surrounded by insanely talented girls who could sit in straddle and over-splits — a form of stretching in which you place one ankle on an elevated surface and sit in split from there — in their sleep and still not feel a thing, while I sat struggling to touch the floor in splits.
I would sit and memorize the carpet before me, fervently wishing time would flow faster so I could escape my self-simulated oppression. More than once I remember feeling the tears slide down my face, not only from the physical pain but also from the shame I felt for not being flexible.
If only I had raised my eyes back then, I would have seen not the intimidating gym I imagined but the concentrated faces of my teammates. I would have seen the glow in my coach’s eyes, realized her harsh demeanor was one of pure intent to make us stronger, not to only find fault where I had seen none. I would have seen success in its incipient stages, the determination to improve carved on everyone’s visages.
And above all, I would have come to the epiphany I had freshman year — that I truly love the sport — years sooner.
Human perfectibility is the belief that people are capable of infinite improvement. Rhythmic has made me believe in it. I used to think my goal was to become the perfect gymnast, though now I see how parochial an outlook that was.
The nuance between striving for perfection and seeking to improve is the respective focus. Whichever perspective you choose drastically alters your approach to both your training and, in a more general sense, rhythmic itself. I was confused when, at the tender age of 12, my friends quit. Not only them, but also nearly half of those in my level.
Years later, I realize they cared more for the result more than for the process, more for that coveted place on the podium than for the years of training it took to get there.
So when I stand in line after a competition during the awards ceremony, sometimes applauding my fellow gymnasts who step onto the podium, sometimes stepping on the podium myself, I know whoever was recognized that day truly deserved the medal she earned.
So when I glance around the gym after a gala and see the shining eyes of the younger gymnasts, their desire to become better and master the art of rhythmic gymnastics, I smile on the inside.
Because I know those eyes, because they used to be mine. Because I was once that little girl.
This syndicated post was originally published at the Huffington Post.
I’m a combination of all of the above, plus a bit more. I train because, quite simply, I love rhythmic.
This was, however, not always the case. I used to dread training, that time when I’d be surrounded by insanely talented girls who could sit in straddle and over-splits — a form of stretching in which you place one ankle on an elevated surface and sit in split from there — in their sleep and still not feel a thing, while I sat struggling to touch the floor in splits.
I would sit and memorize the carpet before me, fervently wishing time would flow faster so I could escape my self-simulated oppression. More than once I remember feeling the tears slide down my face, not only from the physical pain but also from the shame I felt for not being flexible.
If only I had raised my eyes back then, I would have seen not the intimidating gym I imagined but the concentrated faces of my teammates. I would have seen the glow in my coach’s eyes, realized her harsh demeanor was one of pure intent to make us stronger, not to only find fault where I had seen none. I would have seen success in its incipient stages, the determination to improve carved on everyone’s visages.
And above all, I would have come to the epiphany I had freshman year — that I truly love the sport — years sooner.
Human perfectibility is the belief that people are capable of infinite improvement. Rhythmic has made me believe in it. I used to think my goal was to become the perfect gymnast, though now I see how parochial an outlook that was.
The nuance between striving for perfection and seeking to improve is the respective focus. Whichever perspective you choose drastically alters your approach to both your training and, in a more general sense, rhythmic itself. I was confused when, at the tender age of 12, my friends quit. Not only them, but also nearly half of those in my level.
Years later, I realize they cared more for the result more than for the process, more for that coveted place on the podium than for the years of training it took to get there.
So when I stand in line after a competition during the awards ceremony, sometimes applauding my fellow gymnasts who step onto the podium, sometimes stepping on the podium myself, I know whoever was recognized that day truly deserved the medal she earned.
So when I glance around the gym after a gala and see the shining eyes of the younger gymnasts, their desire to become better and master the art of rhythmic gymnastics, I smile on the inside.
Because I know those eyes, because they used to be mine. Because I was once that little girl.
This syndicated post was originally published at the Huffington Post.
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