A Truly Happy New Year

To quote 2013 me:

"My resolution for 2014 is Be Happy."

Done. I kept it short, simple, and specific. I feel like I did a pretty good job sticking to that resolution and working on it throughout the year. Did I have down days or tough days? Absolutely, but sitting here tonight I feel much more positive and hopeful about things than I did last year, so I'ma call that a win.

I've thought a lot about happiness over the last year and even more so in the last few weeks. There has been so much happiness going on all around me. This year I got to see my older sister get married and in just the last two weeks I've gotten to congratulate at least 4 friends on their "baby coming in 2015" announcements, 3 sets of friends on their engagements, 2 on their wedding, and 2 on the arrival of their baby just today! What I found surprising is that instead of being butthurt and all "is the entirety of Facebook engaged and pregnant?!?!??" I am legitimately excited and happy for them. I think it's because I have more fulfillment in my own life. It's truly awesome to be at a place where I can recognize and celebrate that incredible happiness in others.

I can't pinpoint any big changes that I made this year - I think it was more of a culmination of times throughout the year that I made the choice to be happy. Times I changed my attitude and the way I responded to my situation. I stepped outside my comfort zone more. It's all made a big difference, but I'm not quite all the way there yet.

As it is known to do, the universe has been tapping me on the shoulder the last few days to remind me of my goal, of my resolution... letting me know this is the right path and to keep going. 

I'm sure you've been inundated by New Year's "lists" - I've read a lot of them too, but the following are just a few of the better articles I've come across and the excerpts that really hit home for me.

- Your First Step Toward Happiness

"2. Change the way you think.

Indeed, all change starts inside your head. If you think like a victim, you will be a victim of the worst life and work have to offer. But if you think like a champion who overcomes difficulties, you will be an over comer.

Wayne Dyer, one of the most prominent success coaches of the last 50 years, says, 'When you change the way you look at things, the things you look at change.'”

- 10 Things I Wish I Could Tell My Single, Unhappy Self

"10. Be the hero of your own life.

True, things will change without you doing anything. However, once you take responsibility for your own happiness, instead of blaming your job, the weather, your friends and family, or the government — making yourself a victim — you can become the hero of your own life. When you actively seek truth, joy, and love, with the vulnerability and diligence you deserve, a fantastic transformation will not be withheld from you."

- New Year’s Resolution Remix: 15 Things To Stop Doing In 2015

"7. Stop feeling sorry for yourself.

You are not a victim; it’s time to get out of your own way. If you find yourself constantly surrounded by drama, you are the one enabling it.

You will never be able to control what others do; however, you are in full control of how you react. Realize that you can overcome hard times. Instead of attending your own pity party, you can accept the fact that only you can change your thoughts and experiences.

You have the power to control your feelings."

So basically, in 2015 I plan to keep on keeping on and taking responsibility for my own happiness. Working on losing weight (#roadto100 - by the 2016 CrossFit Games Open), being happy, and being more awesome. 

All the best to all of you. No matter what your goals, I hope to celebrate them and your happiness with you in the coming year! Cheers to us all.

Quitter

Some nights are harder than others. When I haven't been on track with my nutrition, or I've had a few days off, or I've been feeling sick, or I'm not as hydrated as I need to be...or all of these things all at once...it's not exactly the ideal set-up for success.

Every second was a struggle tonight. I wanted to quit so many times. I wanted to sit down. I wanted to cry. I wanted to just be able to breathe easily. Unfortunately for about 18 minutes none of that happened. I may have almost cried somewhere near the end if I hadn't already sweated out every drop of fluid I had in me. 

Tonight I was given the choice to finish the workout or throw in the towel with about a third of the work left. I didn't hesitate to drop my head and shake it back and forth to signify that I was done. 

Making that decision felt really good. Not just because it meant I could catch my breath and stop doing burpees, but because I knew it was a good decision. I don't usually like it when I'm told to scale or when I get time capped or have my reps cut mid-workout. Sometimes I get annoyed because it seems like I don't get the chance to see if I could do the work, even though I know (in the end) it's smarter for the coach to pull me back.

Tonight I was okay with quitting because I'd already hit a wall about 70 jumps, 15 burpees, and 30 pull-ups earlier. The moment arrived when I wanted to throw down the jump rope and walk away, but instead I threw it down and climbed up on the plates I stacked to do 5 more pull-ups. And then I did it again a few more times. And I got down on the floor and pulled myself back up more times than I wanted to. I kept moving long after my head started telling me it was having none of this exercise nonsense.

So, when it came time to keep pushing or call it good enough, I called it. I'd done more than I wanted to, more than I thought I could. I'd done enough to be satisfied with my effort. Could I have finished? Maybe, but knowing that I needed to stop and owning that decision and being completely okay with it proved more to me than finishing would have proved to anyone else. 

In the Silence

Music is an integral part of CrossFit to me. Really, it's an integral part of life. In my world there is little that I do that doesn't have a soundtrack. The first thing I do when I wake up is turn on the radio... I have one in the bathroom. I listen to music on the way to work, while I'm working, on the way home, when I walk or drive to the gym, while I workout, while I make dinner. In college my best papers were written to music. I can't imagine not having music in my life.

Of the 10 or so CrossFit gyms I've been to, there hasn't been a single one that didn't involve a 3,2,1...blaring music!! It's as much a part of CrossFit as barbells and wallballs. Just like I can't imagine driving to work in silence, I can't fathom being pumped up to get through a workout with nothing to drown out the voice that makes me doubt myself and begs me to quit.

But there's something to be said for silence. Amazing moments happen in the quietest parts of life. 

Every so often there exists a fleeting moment in the silence created between songs when you can hear the gym. An instant in which the thumping of the bass ringing in your ears is replaced by the pulse of your own heartbeat.

In that void, when all you can hear is the clang of a barbell and the rattle of the plates or even just the off-beat, rhythmless, labored breathing of the 11 other people swinging kettlebells in line next to you... I remember why I love CrossFit so much. 

The sound of the gym that fills those gaps is born of hard work. The clangs, and slaps, and grunts, and gasps for air. Every barbell that hits the ground is one that someone picked up. Every woosh of the wheel on a rower signifys someone getting a few meters closer to a goal. 

It may sound dorky, but I think it's really cool to be a part of that silence. It's why I liked being in band - that feeling of being part of a bigger whole. Knowing that the notes I played were just as important as the notes someone else was playing. (Especially since the instrument I played rarely got the melody, but I digress.)

When all I can hear in the silence is 12 separate people gasping for air, it doesn't matter that I'm swinging around 10lbs and the guy next to me is swinging 70. The point is that we're ALL breathing hard, all working hard, even if we're not doing the exact same thing.

In that moment, the emptiness and the silence of life doesn't seem so bad. In that kind of silence I don't feel alone. The sound we make together in the silence is as loud as whatever heavy metal or rap song is next on the playlist. And, if I really think about it, maybe that's all I need to drown out the doubt.

Photo Credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/esm723/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

Keeping My Head Down While Keeping My Head Up

I was at the movies last night with my little sister when I found myself suddenly inconsolable in the middle of the movie. It's not that the movie didn't have some sad parts, but I found myself continuing to cry even during moments that brought the characters joy. I think a lot can be blamed on hormones, but for no really good reason I just found this movie (that I actually enjoyed) to be particularly upsetting.

The first half of the movie had me laughing out loud, literally, then it's like all of the sudden I was hit by this crushing realization of how small my world was, but in the same instant the world seemed hopelessly and impossibly vast. It got to be a little too much and when emotions get too much they tend to seek escape through my tear ducts. It happens. Anyone who knows me even a little bit knows that I am unapogetically sentimental and that I cry a lot. I find my sensitivity to be both a great strength in my capacity for compassion and empathy, but also a weakness in times when I'm sobbing uncontrollably in public.

Still in tears after we left the theater, I was hit by a need to make myself feel better. I'd gotten mired down in this funk and wanted out. I wanted comfort and to be consoled. There were several things I wanted to do after my sister walked me to the car and hugged my goodbye. The first was drive directly to the store and get ice cream, even though I was only 3 days in to my Whole 30 challenge and was doing great and knew how much worse I would feel after I did it. But I won that battle and didn't get ice cream. So I felt a little better for overcoming that first test. 

My second option was to curl up inside my sadness and ride it out. I drove home, still crying, cried in the car for a few minutes before going inside, changed into some warm pajamas and then continued to cry myself to sleep. It was a rough night. 

I thought through things with a clearer head this morning and realized that I was upset because I was confronted by this idea that my life was never going to be what I wanted it to be. I don't hang out in that space all the time, but I visit with enough regularity for it to be problematic - ie public sobfests. The real problem is that I truly do get too focused on details to my own detriment. It's not just that I "miss the forest for the trees" - I miss the whole damn tree because I'm too busy looking at the veins on one leaf! 

Like many people, I assume, I've drawn a picture in my mind of how I want my life to be. I've added to the picture, erased some things, drawn them back in bolder... But I've always been stubbornly awaiting a full realization of this perfect picture, without spending the time to really dedicate myself to anything that will help it develop.

I am asked about and reminded of my goal on at least a weekly basis. Sometimes daily. I know what it is and I know what I need to do to reach it. I own it now. I trust that by putting my head down (in a blinders on, nose to the grindstone kind of way) and keeping my head up (in a proud and positive, focus on the big picture and what you're doing well kind of way) I will make progress. Instead of worrying about all the little pieces that I can't possible hold in my hands all at once, I know that they'll all eventually fall into focus. I just have to be patient and stay focused. 

I can't keep living life wondering what lies just beyond the horizon if I'm not willing to swim out and chase it.

Standing Up

I've been doing my best in the last few months to focus on training time as just time to improve me. I try to show up on my 3 predetermined days, regardless of what is programmed for the day, and do the work. The work I know is not going to be the same as what everyone else is doing, but is what is best for me. And, most importantly, I try to be okay with everything. To not get frustrated or upset. To enjoy being active with no specific goals or benchmarks on the horizon. 

I've tried to focus on those little victories that are often forgotten when bigger, faster, and heavier are blocking my view. Sometimes it's just showing up with a good attitude. Other times it's just continuing to move and not taking too much rest. A lot of the time I just try to listen. To really feel every movement and listen to how my body reacts. I feel like this is the only way I can see through this injury to the other side. I need to know that I'm doing okay (or not) so I can give an honest assessment of how the workout is going when/if I'm asked and know when I need to stop.

Like everything, this isn't always easy and isn't going to happen overnight. I trained one way - the bigger, faster, and heavier way - for the first year and a half. Chasing PRs, pushing past my limits...it felt good to train like that and it's hard to not let workouts get away from me and fly off with reckless abandon and go as hard as I possibly can. But that's exactly what I've been trying to avoid doing. Finding that place where I know I could probably do a little more, go a little heavier, do the work a little faster, but recognizing that exact point as the place where I have to be smart - dancing a little over the line, cautiously, but keeping an awareness of how each fraction of an inch past the line puts more stress on my body. Rationalizing that an extra few reps in the Monday workout might feel good on Monday, but will likely make Wednesday miserable. There's no prize for coming in last place a few reps higher on a random weekday WOD. 

It still kills me a little to stand at the back or off to the side with my dumbbells when everyone else is working on barbells. It just does. I've accepted it, but I don't know that I'll ever skip gleefully over to pick them up or approach them with the same feeling as I do (did) when approaching a heavily loaded bar. It's just not the same and I miss working with a barbell...as stupid as it may sound, that has been the hardest thing for me to accept, even though I know it's not forever.

Maybe all of that didn't help build my case, but I actually am happier in the gym recently than I have been in several months. Yes, I'm not where I want to be in every aspect of my training, but I feel like things are really solid right now. Also, just because I'm not able to see my major lifts get better doesn't mean I don't still have little goals or things I'm working on. I've decided this is the perfect time to finally get some double unders and add to my total of 10 lifetime DUs (singular, miraculous events that they were).

For the Fourth of July we did the hero WOD Glen. As programmed it's 30 clean & jerks at 95lbs ("Grace") + 1 mile run + 10 rope climbs + 1 mile run + 100 burpees, with a 70 minute time cap. My workout was 30 hang clean & jerks with kettlebells (which is exactly as awkward as it sounds), 1600m row, 10 rope pulls (from flat on the ground to seated to standing and back down) 1600m row, and 12.5 burpees. Yes, only 12.5 of the 100. 

As I lay on the ground between each of those 12 burpees I had a mini dialogue with myself - "Just keep moving until time runs out." "No, I should probably stop...it's starting to feel bad on the downs and ups." "But only on the downs and ups...can you make it to 50?" "Uh...maybe 25?" "Yeah...I'm done." 

Done on the ground in the middle of the 13th burpee at 45:45. And I let myself feel defeated for a half minute because I didn't finish. Couldn't finish? No. I decided it was best to not finish. Then I felt pretty great about that decision and the fact that I'd just done 45 minutes of solid work. I rowed 2 sub 9 minute miles and did a scaled Grace in just over 5 minutes. And, the rope pulls. 

The first time I worked on rope climbs in CrossFit I obviously didn't even get off the ground, nor could I manage the scaled option of pulling myself from the ground to a standing position using the rope. I literally couldn't stand up. I had to scale even further and only pull myself to a seated position and even that was hard. And it felt pathetic. Several months later I was finally able to stand and it made me feel so strong. It was the same feeling I got when I could finally stand up a Turkish Get-Up. I was worried going into the workout on Friday that I might not be able to pull myself up anymore. I've already lost my handstands and can't lift right now...I really wanted to be able to do the rope pulls. I needed to be able to stand up. At the end of the day, the thought that made my DNF (decided not to finish) okay was the feeling of successfully standing up.

As good as lifting heavy makes me feel, there will always be fulfillment in being able to stand up. On my own. In the gym and in life. 

Nothing Lost

My last competive weightlifting meet was over a year ago. It would be slightly ridiculous to categorize what was only my 4th time lifting in competition as the "meet of my life" but if that was the last time I ever step out in a singlet to lift heavy things in front of judges, it was a good way to end what was my extremely short-lived career in the sport. I went 6 for 6 on my lifts and got competition PRs in my snatch, clean & jerk, and total.

The MDUSA Open last May was effectively the beginning of what has been an exceedingly difficult part of this journey, but I honestly feel like in the long run I will be better for having made it through. That meet, as well as it went from a weightlifting standpoint, came with a crushing realization that I was at a breaking point. Physically, emotionally, financially - everything had just become too much. Don't get me wrong, I loved weightlifting as much then as I ever have, but it had gotten to a point where I was making myself miserable trying to make it work.

To say I was overtraining would be laughable to a real competitive weightlifter, but I realize now that my training volume was exceeding what I was personally able to recover from and I had basically failed to allow myself to succeed. I wasn't eating, sleeping, or really doing anything in the recovery field to the level I needed to make what I was doing in the gym beneficial. I didn't feel the good kind of endorphine-fueled exhaustion like I used to with CrossFit - just a soul-crushing, beat-down blend of debilitating soreness, exhaustion, and general malcontent. And I decided I couldn't do it anymore. I took a month off from weightlifting and CrossFit.

For the last year I felt like taking that month off ruined all the hard work I had done and I blamed that break on every subsequent set-back. I told myself, often, that if I had just been able to power through things would have gotten easier, I wouldn't have lost my conditioning, gained back most of the weight I lost in my first year, felt the need to overcompensate and "prove myself" only to push too hard and end up injured.

I fell on my face pretty hard this last year, but I can say that I truly believe it needed to happen. It definitely humbled me and forced me to deal with a number of issues that I had placed behind and beneath my perceived "need" to be validated and to appear stronger than I really was. The six months I spent away from the barbell have made me more aware of my motivations. The time I spent alone in the gym allowed me to appreciate those hours as nothing more than time I set aside to better myself and be active. It has helped me listen to my body and focus on my inner voice as a guide instead of letting the noise around me dictate how I feel about my effort or encourage me to exceed my limits in a destructive way.

I've been back in a group CrossFit class for three weeks now and I already notice major differences in the way I approach the work in front of me. I am truly okay with my monumentally scaled movements and I no longer feel weak because right now I'm performing at a 10th of the level I was capable of a year ago. I don't find myself glancing longingly at the rest of the class loading up their barbells and hitting snatches, clean & jerks, and squats and feeling a pit in my stomach because I can't join in on the fun. I feel the good kind of sore and exhausted at the end of my workouts. Most importantly, when the coach yells "Time!" I don't find myself frustrated, in pain, or in tears over something that should make me happy and feel good about myself. CrossFit is making me feel good again, even though the experience is not the same as it once was.

It might still be a long time before I'm able to lift heavy or compete again, but neither of those things are my primary goal anymore. They never really were. I have a lot of hard work ahead before I can focus on those auxiliary goals but I know if I decide that lifting competitively again is something I want, I will be able to get there one day. I'm choosing to focus on the good things I've gained out of this bump in the road and in doing so I'm able to realize that what I used to think was lost, never really went anywhere. Every experience leads me closer to where I want to be. I believe every gain - be it physical, mental, emotional - is a learning experience and when you learn something well enough it stays with you. Nothing is really lost for good. Except hopefully weight...next time around I hope every pound I lose stays gone!

I haven't taken many pictures lately because I was ashamed of my weight gain, but you can't change what you don't acknowledge (or some equally poignant Dr. Phil-ism). So here's a before shot to start another "Farewell to the 300s (forever this time)" effort.

Time

A few weeks ago a friend from college posted that she was considering a gym membership. I, of course, threw CrossFit's hat in the ring. I always have what my sister calls my "elevator speech" ready whenever I nudge that door open, but this time I was a little taken aback by the response I received.

I'm used to defending the intensity of CrossFit - "yes it's intense, but totally scalable to your ability level", the risk of injury - "there's risk in any sport and a good coach will teach you to move safely first", and the cost - "yes it's more expensive than Gold's or Planet Fitness but you get a personal trainer/group experience all in one and you don't have to worry about what to do for each workout and have you ever had anyone (or a group of people) cheer you on and push you to run one more mile on the treadmill at those gyms?" I share my own story of doing CrossFit at 350 pounds and how my Dad (and many others) have done CrossFit into their late 50s and beyond. I tell them about adaptive athletes doing WODs from wheelchairs and on prosthetic legs and how even kids and pregnant women can do some form of CrossFit. 

In this case the question threw me a little because it had never come up in a CrossFit conversation before and had never factored into my decision to start working out.

"How do you find the time for CrossFit?"

My initial thought was: What?? It's only an hour... You don't have one free hour in your day?!

I realize that I'm in a rare minority of people who don't really have any sort of responsibility, outside of work, or anyone to answer to. I'm not married, I don't have kids or pets, I rarely have to take work home with me... From 7:30-5:00 Monday through Friday my time belongs to the federal government, but the other 15 hours in the day are completely mine. If actually got the 8 hours of sleep I'm supposed to, that would leave me 7 hours of free time each day. 

I've had many jobs in my life, and I realized recently that this year I will have been a part of the workforce for half of my life. I've been working for nearly 16 years in some capacity, and looking back (save the years when I was in high school juggling school, band, softball, volleyball, track, and a part-time job - but not all at the same time), I've always had a good amount of free time that I have failed to make good use of.

I realized that during my internship I often had to work 10-12 hour days covering evening activities at the hospital, but I was still managing to average 5-6 hours of TV a night and even more on the weekends. My life was working, eating, sleeping, and watching TV. 

Something that I'm really glad I realized from the beginning was that I couldn't just start doing CrossFit and hope that everything would get better. I understood that everything had to change. My diet, my sleep habits, and how I spent my free time. I couldn't keep eating fast food every day because I was now working out. My evenings weren't about food and TV, they revolved around my CrossFit class and getting food as soon as I got home after (which I usually had to spend 20 minutes -1 hour cooking.) I still had time to watch maybe 1 show before bed, if I wanted to get as much sleep as possible, but there weren't enough hours in the day to keep watching all the shows I used to watch. 

When something had to give, it wasn't hard to choose CrossFit over TV shows. If you had asked me 3 years ago if I would be planning my life around when my workouts were and that I would have fallen at least two seasons behind on probably 10-15 shows that used to be "can't miss" parts of my day? I would have called shenanigans. I'm even starting to get into hiking on the weekends instead of sleeping or laying around watching TV.

So, how do I make time for CrossFit? Not a problem. It's time I schedule for myself and it's important to me, so I don't find it difficult to arrange my life with CrossFit in the center. Sure my apartment isn't always ready for company to drop by, and I don't do my dishes every day... But that's what rest days are for - doing all the rest of the stuff that isn't work, sleep, or CrossFit. Right?

My advice for anyone who feels like they can't fit exercise in their life is to take a look at how you're spending all the time that isn't work or sleep. Do you spend hours at the bars/clubs? Do you spend hours on the internet and social media every day? Are you going on marathon shopping trips every weekend? Do you watch 6 hours of TV each night? If getting fitter is an important goal, you have to make time for it. If you can figure out all the things that are keeping you from that goal, diverting your attention, and sucking up all your free time - and then elimate them... Think how much time you would have for healthier pursuits that are going to move you forward, not hold you back.

Two

A year ago I wrote a post that I had been composing in my head for the entire year prior. I envisioned the photos I would take to highlight the progress I'd made and worked on finding just the right words to sum up a crazy and life-changing year. Then, I sat back and enjoyed the overwhelming response to that post and marveled at the number of people that it reached. A few months later I started realizing that my "end of year two" post was going to be vastly different. 

I don't have any impressive numbers or dramatic photos to share this year because, truthfully, I didn't make progress that would have shown up in a photograph and what could be seen wouldn't have told the whole story. Though this year's transformation hasn't been impressive or positive on the outside, I feel like my inside self has greatly improved from that of the smiling girl who was only proud of herself last year because she thought she had done enough to make everyone else proud.

It's not necessarily a bad thing if sharing my story, triumphs, and struggles helped others, or inspired them. I'm not ungrateful or regretful of the attention I received, but as much as I thought that I needed all of that, what I learned this year was that I'm much stronger when I'm driven by nothing more than my internal need to improve - for me alone. When I'm truly tapped into my goals and I'm honest about what I need to do to reach them. I'm stronger when I can view training as nothing more than time to move, rid myself of stress and drama and expectation, and simply feel good about myself and be thankful for what I am able to accomplish.

I spent the better part of this last year feeling lost and frustrated and defeated. In just the last ten weeks I feel like I've found my way again and I've finally been able to regain a stable footing and begin the climb back, not to where I was last year, but even higher, on a steadier, more well planned path. 

Do I wish I could have arrived at this place without sacrificing so much of what I gained last year? Obviously. But it will come. I will get back there, and this time it will be all that much sweeter because I will have had to try and fight harder for what I want. I welcome the challenge. No matter what happens in this third year, there is something to be learned in every step you take, be it forward or back. 

Blinders On

I made this picture my desktop background a few months ago because I really liked it, but for all the wrong reasons. I like it now because it has helped me realize why liking what I thought it represented wasn't the best thing for me.

When I first saw this picture after Barbells for Boobs this year, I thought "this is what CrossFit is all about." The last person struggling to finish the workout and everyone from the community cheering them on. Supporting every athlete equally until the last rep hits the floor. This is what I had come to expect out of CrossFit - in my moments of struggle I would have the full support of the community around me to keep me going. It's what kept me going in my first few months of CrossFit - that feeling that I wasn't alone and no one was going to let me quit.

The first time this happened to me was the first time I did Nancy. I had to row instead of run and was overhead squatting an empty bar and was still at least a full round behind everyone else in the class. I figured when everyone else finished they would catch their breath, gather their stuff and start getting ready to go home. I would either be told to stop or would just finish my last round at the back of the room and go home too. In the beginning I worked out with blinders on - head down or gaze focused straight ahead - only worried about what I was doing. That day I became aware that I had gathered a crowd. The people that finished didn't just leave, they came over to cheer me on so I didn't have to finish alone. They counted every rep out loud, encouraged me to pick the bar back up when I took breaks, and didn't stop until the barbell settled on the ground for the last time. It was weird. And unexpected. And quite honestly it made me really self-conscious and uncomfortable. I didn't like having everyone stare at me while I lumbered around at 350 pounds struggling to exercise. I wanted to tell them, "you know it's nice of you, but you really don't have to bother. I'm fine." Strangely though, the more I thought about what had just happened, the more warm and fuzzy I felt inside.

I can't remember very many instances in the last two years where I wasn't the last one to finish a WOD, so this scenario played itself out over and over again to the point where, for me, it became normal to work out with a crowd around me, especially at the end. In addition, I started to get feedback outside of the gym about what a great job I was doing, and how inspiring I was, and the more I heard the more I wanted to hear. I started to enjoy the attention and the accolades. I started to feel like I needed it to succeed.  I felt that I needed to keep working hard so that others would continue to support me and I wanted to make my coaches proud of me.

I still worked out in a tunnel for the most part, eyes focused straight ahead, but I could always hear the clapping, or someone shouting my name from across the room. When it got really tough, I relied on having someone show up beside me to ask, "how many more do you have?" because it usually always happened. Eventually, especially when I moved back, it got to a point where I no longer had blinders on. I started to look around and see just how far behind I was and how much more everyone else was lifting, and I was really hard on myself. I started to feel bad for having to scale everything and wasn't satisfied that my best was good enough for me. I kept trying to push past what I knew was my limit, to my own detriment, because I wanted to be as good as I felt everyone else was.

The more I struggled the more I felt like I was letting everyone down. I wanted to keep up my role as an "inspiration." I knew that I had been giving up on myself, but for some reason I was upset that it seemed like everyone else had given up on me too. As it became more and more about what everyone else thought and said I began to lose my reason for the journey and I didn't really realize that it was happening.

My first workout back in Roanoke was when I hurt myself. When I was lying on the ground in pain, explaining that I had been snatching too heavy, my coach asked "who were you trying to impress?" I didn't have an answer until a few weeks ago when I finally realized that in truth I had been trying to impress him and the other athletes in the class. I had been away for a year and wanted to show everyone that I was strong and could keep up and that I was good at snatching. I'm not proud of letting my ego and my need for attention get the better of me, and I've spent the last 8 months paying for it, and learning that lesson the hard way.

Over the last several months while I've been injured, I haven't been in group classes. I haven't been in a competitive environment. I haven't had that external support that had been my life force during the first year of my journey. Without it I've felt lost and alone. Even though in the beginning I had no expectation that anyone would cheer me on through my workouts and I didn't really even want anyone to take notice of me, I had let that become my sole motivation. It took me a long time to realize that no one was going to support me if I wasn't going to try.

Five weeks ago I started an individualized rehab program. In the first meeting with my coach, she told me that she needed me to put my blinders on. I needed to focus on the work she was giving me, and not what everyone else was doing. She told me that I was in charge of my health - not her, not the other coaches, not my doctors. Me. I've thought a lot about that and it has helped me to realize that I have to change the way that I've been looking at my workouts.

Right now, and for the unforeseeable future, I can't be a competitive athlete. I can't expect or even try to think about hitting PRs or increasing weight on all my lifts. I can't measure my success on how fast my times are or how heavy my loads are. I can't gauge my effort on being told that I'm doing a good job. I'm working out alone and I can't ever expect that anyone will be there to push me through it - I need to be able to do it alone. I need to know that what I can do, now, is my normal and is good enough - even if no one tells me so. I know that people still care about me and want me to succeed, even if they aren't cheering me on through every workout. I need to get to a place where I don't need anyone else's approval to feel good about my effort. I need to focus on me and what I think of myself and on making myself proud. I need to get healthy and back on track and heal.

Joining CrossFit was never supposed to be about being the center of attention and being an inspiration and working to make anyone else proud of me. I started CrossFit to get healthy and lose weight because I was afraid I was going to die in my 30s. That solitary fear was my driving force. It was never about how much I could snatch or if my workout times compared at all to anyone else, and it shouldn't be about that now because I'm still not at the place where I can shift focus away from my primary goal. Until then, it's blinders back on, head down, moving toward my goals and taking control of my health. Closing my eyes and knowing that the crowd is still around me - even if I don't see or hear them - but not needing it to be there anymore.

The Box

The other day I took a small black box out of my closet. I've had the box, and it's contents, for 10 years now. It has accompanied me on 5 moves.  I used to open the box much more, but I haven't looked inside for several years. I figured the 10 year anniversary of when I started adding to the box might be a good time to take a long, reflective, (maybe last) look at everything the box holds. 

The box contains love, care, and worry. It holds prayer, hope, and faith - much more than I have ever held inside myself. It encompasses the sadness of a community. The box is the resting place for the fragmented pieces of lives broken, some forever. The box holds mementos representative of pain, struggle, and frustration.

The box is my accident box. Inside are all the cards I received when I was in the hospital, rehab center, and when I was recovering at home. A few ziplock bags of dried flowers - a small sampling of the hundreds I received from friends, family, co-workers, and strangers. Newspaper clippings, obituaries, memorial programs. A video of the news reports from that night and first week. Stacks of medical forms, disability leave balance forms, correspondence between my lawyers and insurance companies. Hospital bracelets, the screws that were removed from my knee, my wheelchair gloves, my handicapped parking placard. My personalized "BARIGAL" license plates, once clearly mangled, now pounded back to their original flat license plate shape. A few pieces of the clothes I was wearing that night - my "favorite" outfit at the time - the clothes that the EMTs cut off me at the scene. The empty case for my Maroon 5 - Songs About Jane CD, the one that was left stuck in the player when my Jeep was taken to be crushed. And even a satisfaction survey from Jeep dated March 8th, 2004, thanking me for my purchase, and letting me know they hoped I was enjoying my certified pre-owned vehicle.

A pack rat from an early age, I kept all these things out of habit. I've always kept birthday cards, movie tickets, sugar packets - mementos of important events in my life. Tokens of significant things that have happened. I like pulling out my little boxes of things and recalling the associated memories as I turn each item over in my hands. I didn't keep all these things in the hopes that I would pull them out on a random day 10 years down the road and remember the associated moments with fondness. It's not like I need my hospital bracelet to remind me of the month I spent at Roanoke Memorial. Some people might find it weird to have kept all this stuff for so long, but I think I kept everything because it just felt wrong to throw it away. 

The most important thing I realized about what was in the box when I took my last look through everything, was actually what was missing from the box. All the things that were not in the box. 

The box doesn't hold all the memories of the good things that have happened in my life over the last 10 years. There aren't trinkets associated with my triumph over the things that caused me to struggle. My wheelchair gloves are in the box - my first unassisted steps are not. The license plates from the Jeep I got when I started driving again are on the Jeep, not in the box. 

The life that I live now, though impacted by the day associated with everything that's in the box, doesn't exist in the box. Of all the things that are in the box, the thing that matters most, isn't there. I am not stuck in that box. I think that part of the reason I kept those things, and kept them in that box, was not to be constantly reminded of that day but so that I wouldn't completely forget about it either - not that I ever could. 

For the last ten years time has existed in segments - things that happened before the accident and things that happened after. At first I counted the days since the accident. Then weeks. Then months. It's hard not to remember something that happened on the first of the month. Every time the calendar flipped I knew, it's been a month since the accident, it's been 6 months, 9 months, 11 months. Then I started to reflect yearly on the accident. Every year on March 1st I would think back to that day, how excited I was to get my Jeep, how I spent the rest of the day at work stealing glances out the windows at the bookstore to look at it. I couldn't wait to drive it home. I would think about the moments I can remember surrounding the accident, and the smell in the helicopter, and crying outside the OR with my Mom before I went into surgery. I think about the kids that died and I always get really sad, basically for the entire month. Taking my last look through the box, I think I'm finally ready to stop living with my sense of time constantly focused on that day that changed my life.

Ten years later I am able to move on with my life because of what's in the box, and because it's in the box. Because the box is something that I can put in a closet and not carry around with me every day. I think the parts of that day that I do carry with me, those I can't put in a box, are important to the person I have become a decade later. My scars, the rods in my legs, the memories I'll always have of that day, the roadside memorial I have passed thousands of times - those things are easier to handle, because I have the box.

Closed

Open: not restricted to a particular group or category of participants <open to the public> <open housing>; enterable by both amateur and professional contestants <an open tournament>

 

Closed:  confined to a few <closed membership> ; excluding participation of outsiders or witnesses

 

Since the beginning of the year, all across the internet and Facebook, those of us who count ourselves part of the CrossFit community have been bombarded by reminders that the 2014 Reebok CrossFit Games Open is coming and we should all sign up. "The Open is for Everyone!" each new blog post and video proclaims. "Test Your Fitness!" Excitement has built, nutrition has been put on lock, training has peaked. For the elite 1% of the CrossFit world this is the beginning of their season - the first step in qualifying for the Games. For the other 99% of us it's a chance to play among giants and see where we stack up in the world of fitness. Just how far off the marks of Rich, Sam, Annie, and Jason we actually are. Overall the Open is fun and builds community, and if you've got even a little bit of CrossFit under your belt, there really isn't any reason that you can't, or shouldn't, try to participate. (As long as you aren't injured...)

 Two years ago I started CrossFit shortly after the conclusion of the 2012 Open so 2013 was my first chance to participate. Like many newbie CrossFitters I was nervous about signing up, despite the assertions that anyone could do it, because after almost a year of training I knew my limitations fairly well. I didn't have pull-ups, box jumps, double unders, toes to bar, muscle-ups - all things that were likely to show up in the Open workouts. I was very much a weightlifting specialist so I knew that the chances of something coming out of the hopper that I wouldn't be able to do were high. It was pretty much guaranteed that at some point during the Open I would be stuck helplessly staring down a piece of equipment unable to perform some movement Dave Castro had cooked up, but I carried the hope that if there was a slim chance that I would be able to get some part of the workout done, I knew I had to at least try. I signed up and waited with anticipation for the release of workout 13.1.

 

As luck would have it, I was at a work conference dinner during the announcement so I couldn't watch it live, but as soon as dinner was over I pulled out my phone to check Facebook and found out that the first workout was burpees and snatches - two things that I could absolutely do. I was ecstatic. And giddy. It was a bit ridiculous how excited I was and as no one that I work with does CrossFit they didn't quite understand my hopping around going "burpees and snatches, burpees and snatches!" Throughout the Open I was able to do less and less as the workouts got more difficult, but I was still able to do something every week and even better, I got to be a part of the community of like-minded CrossFitters at my box, and compare scores with my Dad, and check the leaderboard obsessively to see if I was 20,000th or 30,000th that week. I sat in the Navy Yard Metro station for nearly an hour watching the 13.3 release on my phone because I couldn't wait until I got home to see it. 

 

Even though I had zero chance of making it to Regionals, and the workouts were so brutal that they left me mildly incapacitated for several days, participating in the Open was some of the most fun I have had as a CrossFitter to date. I started and finished the Open at Brickhouse and did the 3 workouts in between at District. I saw several PRs from my friends, first muscle-ups, watched one of my coaches make it to Regionals, and I even learned more about myself as a competitor. The Open came after a few months spent focusing solely on weightlifting and it reminded me how much I loved doing CrossFit. Even more exciting to me was the fact that I had posted scores all 5 weeks and would have this data to compare myself to going in to the 2014 Open when I was going to be Oh-So-Much-Better-At-CrossFit.

 

So, here we are. The Open is upon us. 14.1 was announced tonight, and even though I'm signed up, registered, and ready to go, I am about 99.9% sure that I am going to have to sit out this year. On the very miniscule chance that Castro programs a seated dumbbell press, plate step-up, rowing, plank hold, AirDyne AMRAP - I'm tagging in. Otherwise, I'm going to be a spectator/cheerleader/judge and just enjoy everyone else enjoying the Open. I'll watch the announcements, read the strategy blogs, follow my friends on the leaderboard... but this year the Open is closed to me, at least as far as being an athlete participant is concerned.

 

And you know what? I'm totally okay with that. Well, mostly okay. I won't lie...I'm a little bummed that I won't be in the mix, but I'm not devastated and I'm not stupid enough to risk further injury just to participate. This year my Open test is patience and persistence. 5 weeks of not pushing myself too hard. 5 weeks of not testing the limits of my fitness. 5 weeks with my blinders on, focused on my programming, focused on healing, with my head down - working on getting stronger.

 

For the first time in a long time I'm at peace and content. I'm in less pain that I have been in months, I've let go of some anger and resentment and hurt that I was holding on to, I'm ready to take each day as it comes, and I'm excited to see what happens from there.

 

Good luck to everyone who is participating in the Open - I can't wait to see what you all accomplish this year!

 

The Long Road Ahead

In the last 6 weeks I've only touched a barbell twice. Once to roll out my quads, and once to put away one that was left in the rack at the end of the day. Two weeks before Christmas, just a few days after getting my back "fixed" I stupidly went right back to the barbell and felt the pain again, but worse this time. Then a few days later when I couldn't deadlift 55lbs twice without pain (but did it 23 more times anyway - like an idiot) I tried to convince myself that this was just how it was going to be. I was going to have to train in pain.

It was probably half martyrdom, half stubborn delusion, but I spent the majority of that workout letting my coach push me, not telling him that the pain was excruciating, fighting back tears, refusing to quit, because I didn't want to admit that I was hurt again. I didn't want to be injured. Again. I didn't want to accept that being in that much pain wasn't okay. In my head, being hurt meant being broken again. It meant being isolated again. It meant restriction and time away from the gym. I meant I wasn't going to get what I wanted in the moment which was to spend as much time as possible doing what I loved and being around other people. I didn't want to be hurt because I was afraid of what it do to me emotionally and psychologically.

For a lot of people, working out is a chore. Something they dread, force themselves to do, schedule it like a meeting so they don't bail on it... and it used to be that for me. It was a lot like forcing myself to practice my instrument when I was a music major. I just couldn't lock myself in a windowless room alone for hours at a time and play scales. As much as I liked playing as part of a band I hated playing alone and didn't have the drive and focus needed to make me a good musician. Getting on a treadmill and walking to nowhere felt like locking myself in a practice room. I hated it. I was able to force myself to go for a few months, but when I failed to see any results it became harder and harder to talk myself into going. So I didn't go for almost six months. I still paid my membership, but I was perfectly fine wasting that money. I'm not that person anymore. Don't get me wrong, I would still hate to get on a treadmill and walk to nowhere, but in the last two years I have been able to find a way to work out that I have grown to love.

When I started CrossFit I started to change the way I looked at fitness. Every training session was something new and exciting. There were people to talk to. People that helped me. I had a team. I wasn't locked in a windowless room. I was seeing results. It was fun. But more than that, it made me feel good about myself. I started to feel strong and confident and capable. I never felt that way doing water aerobics. Not knocking water aerobics, if you love it go for it, but there's something about the feeling I get hitting a heavy snatch or locking out a solid jerk, that just is not equaled for me in any other way. 

So back into my head six weeks ago, knowing I was hurt again, being told that coming to train in pain everyday was not okay, being forced to back off training the way I wanted to, not getting to participate in group classes - I felt that everything I loved was being taken away. That my stupidity and my stubbornness was costing me the only thing I had to look forward to in my day. The one thing that I felt was my key to being happy and healthy. I was afraid and upset and I had a really tough couple of weeks. I was in a lot of pain and my head was a mess. Things were pretty dark and didn't feel like I could talk to anyone about it without sounding crazy. I couldn't quite articulate why I was so upset and scared and even if I could have explained it, I felt like maybe people would think I was being a baby about it all. It helped to have my family around during the holidays and I did my best to manage the pain until I could get back in to see the doctor, but it was definitely a one hour at a time struggle. It probably shouldn't have been, but it was.

When things are tough, and even when they're not, I tend to get stuck in my own head about them, and overthink them, and obsess about every detail of the situation, and I really didn't want to do that this time. I wanted to find a way to just be okay with what was and find a way to get through it. The first two weeks were the toughest because I was still in so much pain and I basically stayed away from the gym more than I had in a long time. It was just too hard and upsetting to be there. Once I got back to the doctor and was able to get realigned again, the pain started to go away for the most part and I was able to start working on getting better. I've tried really hard to not get stuck thinking about being injured and just focusing on getting better. So far I'm doing okay with that.

I started physical therapy a few weeks ago and though all the exercises are deceptively simple and a little boring compared to lifting heavy things, they have been surprisingly difficult. It's no fun to lay around contracting small muscles, rowing, or riding the AirDyne... it's all a little like walking on the treadmill to nowhere, but I know that it's what I need to be doing most right now. I've tried to keep things as consistent as possible, stick to what I've been allowed to do in the gym, and only that, and not push this recovery.

When I was trying to make a recovery plan, my coach told me that I needed to be patient. He told me that it was going to take time. This was difficult for me to hear because of my previous experience with the healing process and being patient. When I broke my legs the doctors initially told me that I was looking at 6-8 weeks. Considering how badly I had been hurt, 6-8 weeks didn't seem so bad. I was upbeat and hopeful and I put on my brave face. I made it through the first two weeks in the hospital, and then the next two in the rehab center and though those were really rough weeks, I got through them. I was scared about the prospect of having to go into a nursing home, but things worked out and I was able to spend the next few weeks recovering at home. After that month I went in for follow up x-rays and was told "let's give it another month." Okay. Just four more weeks...but at the end of those four weeks I had to hear, "let's give it another month" again. I was crushed. My easy 6 week recovery was now moving toward twelve weeks and I was starting to feel like I was going to be stuck in a bed forever.

Sitting up for the first time in 3 months
nervous about trying to stand.

All told, it was actually almost nine months before I was released from physical therapy, able to walk without a walker or cane, and able to drive again. NINE months until things were basically normal again. Recovery ended up being almost six times longer than I was originally told it would be. I could have made a human being in the time it took for my bones to grow back together and for me to learn to walk again. I know that the doctors weren't lying to me when they told me 6-8 weeks, but I almost wish they had been able to tell me how long it was actually going to take. If I had known in the beginning that I was looking at nine months and not two, I might have been able to handle all that time a little better. If I could have seen the end of the road, maybe the journey wouldn't have been so hard. I don't know that anyone could have predicted how long it was going to take, or if I would ever be even close to "normal" again.

Yesterday my coach wrote a post for our gym blog about making goals and staying focused on them. He talked about his own journey over the last ten years and in reading that it kind of hit me what he meant when he told me to be patient and that this was going to take time. Ten years ago I was a month away from being injured in a car accident. I was a month away from a nine month road to recovery that to date was the most difficult thing I have had to do in my life. But looking back on the last ten years, or the last 31, those nine months are just a brief, fleeting memory. I know how hard I had to work to be able to walk again, and I remember all the painful and embarrassing things I had to go through. I remember falling down, and being scared, and weaning myself off of pain medicine - but I got through it all. I got better and here I am ten years later, not only able to walk but able to run, and lift weights, and get down on the ground and get back up. Things that ten years ago, in the middle of those nine months, I doubted would ever be possible.

Six weeks ago, stuck in my head and focused only on the pain, I was worried that I wouldn't be able to get from one day to the next. I was worried that I was looking down a road with no end in sight. Now I realize that the road isn't just a road I'm on until my back is better, it's a road I'm on forever. I don't want to be able to just get back to lifting weights, I want to get back to working on being healthy for the rest of my life. Yes, lifting weights and doing CrossFit is something that I want to be able to do for a long time, but I also want to be able to live without pain for a long time too. If it takes me three months, or even nine, to get my core and back strong enough to be able to lift weights for the next 10-20 years, then that is time that I'm willing to devote to the healing process. If it means dropping out of another competition, and sitting on the sidelines for the CrossFit Open this year, and maybe not competing at all this year - those are choices that I'm going to have to be smart enough to make. I can't keep feeling upset and jealous about what everyone else is able to do, because that's not my goal right now. If I'm looking at them, I'm losing sight of where my focus should be, which is on my recovery plan and the long road ahead of me. I've already made it through the first six weeks, I just need to keep focused and keep moving down the road. I know that I am strong enough to get past this injury because I have been able to do it before.

When the Basket Breaks

Imagine you've got all these eggs that you've got to carry up a hill. Some are fresh, some are hard boiled, but you aren't really sure which ones are which. You've got to be careful with all of them. Oh, and you don't have anything to carry them in...

What do you do?



First, you try to hold as many as you can in your hands and you start up the hill. But you have really tiny hands and inevitably after a few steps you drop one. Luckily it landed on a particularly soft piece of grass and rolled down to the bottom of the hill. It was a pretty important egg, and you weren't that far up the hill, so you go back to get it and start up the hill again.

You're a little more tired because you've already walked this part of the hill once, but you keep going. It's still difficult to hold the eggs, and sometimes you bobble them. A couple of times you drop one and it cracks a little, but doesn't roll, and you're able to pick it up and continue on. Every once and awhile when the eggs roll, you chase after them and you're able to catch up before they get all the way to the bottom of the hill... but then you have to climb that part of the hill again.

Along the way you find a new egg or two, and they seem like eggs you'd like to have so you pick them up, even though you're having trouble holding the ones you already have. You get a little smarter and try pulling up the hem of your shirt and holding the eggs in a make-shift pouch of sorts. This is working pretty well, but even though you were initially careful with the eggs, the further you get up the hill, the more confident you become in your shirt pouch and forget that the eggs can still break if you don't hold onto the hem just right.

And then you trip. And fall. And the eggs scatter. Some crack, some roll, some break and splatter all over the front of your shirt. And there you are, halfway up a hill with half your eggs broken or smeared all over you, the other half out of your reach at the bottom of the hill. After you spend some time mourning the loss of your eggs, beating yourself up for being so careless, and after a fleeting moment in which you consider the idea of continuing up the hill without the ones you can't reach, you decide to go back down the hill and try to find the most important eggs.

Once you're back at the bottom of the hill you find yourself with far fewer eggs than you had at the start and decide that maybe climbing the hill isn't worth losing the few eggs you've got left. Maybe you can just hang out at the bottom of the hill and hold your eggs and that's good enough. Maybe the top of the hill is overrated. So you sit and hold your eggs and you watch other people climb the hill.

After awhile you get sick of watching people climb the hill, and you really want to give it another try, but you don't want to lose your eggs again. You actually liked climbing the hill the first time, even though it was difficult, and it would be really nice to get to the top. You start to think that maybe along the way you'll be able to replace some of the eggs you lost. But you're going to need a strategy this time. You can't just try to hold onto all the eggs and expect to not drop them again.

A basket. You need a basket for the eggs. Something big, and supportive, with a good structure. Something that won't let you down like your hands and your shirt did. If you don't have to do it all on your own the eggs will be so much easier to carry. Then you find a basket that seems to meet all the criteria and add in your few precious eggs and start back up the hill once more.

The climb is difficult, like it was before, but the eggs are safe in the basket. You're making great progress up the hill, finding more eggs, adding them to the basket. Never dropping one. Even when you switch out your basket for a different one for a little while and take a different trail up the hill - leaving a few of those eggs behind - you and the eggs are still doing okay.

After awhile you backtrack to the first basket and head up the original path again, but the basket you left behind isn't quite the same as when you left it and when you add back in all the eggs you don't notice that the bottom has become a little worn and the weave is not as tight as it used to be. But you really want the basket to be as strong as you remember it and as you try to make your way up the hill on the old path, you're finding the climb much more difficult than you remember it being.

Wasn't this easier before? Wasn't carrying your eggs in this basket all that you needed before to get up the hill with the eggs intact? Then the unthinkable happens. The bottom falls out of the basket. There you are again with your eggs on the ground. Cracked. Broken. Splattered. Rolling away from you.

They warn you not to put all your eggs in one basket.

So, what do you do when the basket breaks?