An Athlete

The measure of an athlete is not how fast or how far she can go. The measure of an athlete is how strong she is, how much she can endure… when she is not winning, when she is hurting, when she keeps hurting... and when she keeps fighting… for no one but herself.

I was injured almost three years ago. I went from training for triathlons and playing any sport I could find to having difficulty getting through the workday. Over the last few years I have struggled with this injury, physically and psychologically. One of the more difficult elements of this injury was that I felt like I was loosing an important piece of my identity.

For years I have clung to my identity as an athlete. It was something I could always come back to, something that made me feel like everything was going to be ok. I could always count my legs and a pair of tennis shoes to take me away. I could go fast and I could go far. And then suddenly I couldn’t.

The last few years have been a roller coaster. At points I have pushed and pushed, demanding that I get better, insisting that I will one day run fast and far again. At other points I have throw my hands in the air, finally accepting that not everything can be fixed, that sometimes you need to recognize what you cannot do and then refocus on what you can do. Trapped in my black and white thinking, I felt like there were only two possible answers: either cling to this shadow of my former athletic self or accept that I was no longer an athlete.

I felt cheated. Why did I, an athlete, have to have athletics taken away from me? Why not someone who didn’t care about running and biking and climbing all over? Why not someone who identified themselves by their art or their music? Why me? Oh yes, I went down that road.

And then I learned a new word: reframing. Rather than be angry that this happened to ME because I was an athlete, I reframed the argument as “Thank goodness I was an athlete because at least I know what is a training hurt and what is a bad hurt, I know how to exercise, I know my body.” I told myself that as bad as it might seem, if I hadn’t been an athlete, it would have been even worse.

But I was still thinking that my identity as an athlete was a thing of the past. It taught me what I needed to help me through this, but it was no longer a part of me.  That doesn’t mean that I gave up trying to heal as much as possible; I was still committed to following up with my doctor, to trying new approaches, to doing my physical therapy exercises, to doing whatever little athletic things I could do. I just released the hold on my identity as an athlete. And it was liberating. I felt at peace.

And then one day it snuck back in. I’m not sure exactly when or how. Perhaps it was in the middle of my physical therapy routine; more likely it was in the shower (that seems to be when I get most of my inspiration). But one day not so long ago, I realized that I still AM an athlete. I cannot run for even five minutes without causing pain that will last for days. I hurt doing many routine activities like driving or dancing. I don’t like going to the gym and seeing all the machines that I cannot use.  I haven’t used my tennis shoes in years and struggle with a few laps at the pool. I cannot play recreational sports much less compete. I cannot run fast or far. I cannot run at all. And I may never run, bike, play volleyball or rock climb again. But I AM AN ATHLETE.

You see, I realized that I didn’t really know what an athlete was. I thought an athlete was someone who could run, bike, and swim fast and far, dive for a volleyball, jump for a frisbee, train until their shirts were drenched in sweat and their muscles ached, outmaneuver an opponent, get a personal record, win a race.  I thought ‘grit’ was about waking up early to pound the pavement until you nearly collapsed, then finding the strength the bust out a few dozen pushups and crunches, and waking up the next day to do it all over again.

I didn’t know that what really made an athlete were the in-between moments. The moments of defeat… of injury. The discipline of knowing when to push and when to rest. The wisdom of seeing the race not in terms of minutes, hours, days, weeks, or months, but in terms of years and decades. The patience. The perseverance. The struggle, not for the personal record of a lifetime, but the personal record of today – be that a 2 hour marathon or a walk around the block. I didn’t know that ‘grit’ was about trying and failing and failing again, about finding your own measure of success and pursing it with focused determination.

I finally realized…

The measure of an athlete is not how fast or how far she can go. The measure of an athlete is how strong she is, how much she can endure… when she is not winning, when she is hurting, when she keeps hurting... and when she keeps fighting… for no one but herself.

I finally realized that I am an athlete.

(Well, I never said I was a stylish athlete.)