The symptoms are easy to spot. My wrists are mangled, my ankles are flexible, and my spirit is determined. I often relax in uncomfortable positions, my legs intertwined like the threads in a knit. Get me on a trampoline, and I will flip wildly through the air, my hair streaming behind me.
I am a former gymnast. Hidden in my parent 's closet, among the dust and dimness, nestles a box. The outside is blue and white, but the interior is bursting with hues of gold, silver, and bronze. Inside lies a treasure trove of medals and ribbons, remnants of competition. Even in the aftermath, gymnastics still manifests itself in my life. Even after I quit, the sport I dedicated myself to for years fails to drift away.
However, what used to be a meaningful endeavor is now a
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“Oh my god.” We gaped at Claire, dumbfounded.
“Hey, I wanna try now,” Mini interjected. Bailey, Rhea, and I piped in too. We each took our turn on the beam, suppressing our fears and ignoring our sweaty palms.
Never did I envision discarding our friendship.
In gymnastics, I soared through the air, but my friends kept me grounded. As the levels progressed, Claire, Rhea, Mini, and Bailey remained. Gymnastics is unlike soccer or football. There’s only so much you can learn about dribbling a ball or scoring touchdowns. In gymnastics, however, each level constructs a foundation in which future skills are rooted.
Needless to say, when I reached level 8 the routines I learned were challenging. My conversations systematically revolved around my inability to perform “crazy-hard” moves and combinations. Years of vigorous training reached a plateau, baffling my coaches and shattering my drive. Ultimately, my natural aptitude for gymnastics proved fruitless in the face of training. The task of competing loomed over me like a mountain. A hulking mountain with jagged peaks, surrounded by storm clouds and crashing thunder. A rotten idea began to surface in my mind. If gymnastics is so hard, why don’t