Leaving my athletic career behind — even calling it a career tickles the imposter syndrome in my throat, a devilish vulture-like thing perched on the shoulder of my self-esteem — has been a tangled mess for many reasons, most of which have something to do with my body and what it looks like and how it feels but mostly what it looks like.

Lately, I look in the mirror, amazed that it does not seem to have changed very much since I stopped playing, and I say that it’s just the leftovers of the shape I was in. I lament that my abdominal muscles will forget how to be flexed and my legs will lose their tone any day now. 

I started a run on a frigid morning in my early days here in Auckland and felt a new, terrible pain my knee. Something keeps popping around in there and I have resolved to stretch more, ignore it for the most part, tell myself it’s just a normal symptom of overuse — normal for a body in retirement. 

Maybe I refuse to go to the physio because I can’t really afford it but maybe I refuse to go to the physio because the pain is the kind that reminds me that I was once an elite athlete. 

Because I’m not anymore.

But I still try to eat like one. And I still try to drink like one, which is minimally, even though I work in a bar. And I still try to sleep like one, which is regularly, even though did I mention I work IN A BAR !!???

My experience playing sports at a high level was one of the greatest value-adds to my life, I’m sure of it. But right now, today, it feels like I’m in ruins. It feels like my time in college athletics broke me down, mentally and emotionally. It feels like it taught me to ignore a lot of what my body was saying to me, sometimes screaming at me, for many days of many years. And now, there is a shy voice inside me that I find hard to recognize, hard to hear. Or maybe she has given up trying to speak to me at all because certainly I’ll just continue to ignore her

Ignore her when she begs for a break

Neglect her when she needs caretaking

In trying to repair, rebuild, pick up all the pieces of myself, I have found myself resorting to the increasingly overused language of the moment; “embodied movement” seems to be the fad, online and all. I have been finding a lot of joy in my young yoga practice but always wonder whether I’m doing enough to maintain what I have built. I signed up for a cardio class and tried very intentionally to not do that thing where I apologize to myself and others for not being in the shape I once was because, Alex, of course you are not. 

Because, Alex, you do not need to be. 

I have to be honest with myself about what feels like my past life altogether and know that I was in training shape, competition shape. Everything I did, every day, was about my sport and my team and … it is exhausting to write this, I must admit. It takes a lot out of me to conjure up the courage and find the words for something so hard and so good and so important.

I indulged in the yummiest yin class last Tuesday night. And as we shifted our focus to the hips, where humans like to store trauma, I breathed into the pain I felt there; I remembered not the times I was running in the sand with my team but running on my own, pushing miles and pace, just to ensure I did not get behind. It was never the times that were meant for training that exhausted me. It was never the times where people told me where to be and what to do — it was the times that I forced myself, with so much …….. force …… to run farther and eat cleaner lest you fall behind, return back to school unable to pass the first conditioning test. 

And I always performed. And so I thought it was because I pushed myself so hard when no one was looking. 

But what would have happened if I would have gotten a scoop of coconut coffee ice cream on my way home from work that one night? 

Who is to say?

That possibility doesn’t exist, right? That world falls away as soon as I walk past the ice cream shop and promise myself “another day.” Or “it’s not worth it, especially if you’re alone.”

What does that do to me? 

“It’s not worth it.”

Does my little, inner self hear,

“I’m not worth it.”

?

I am having a hard time navigating this new life, my new body. I am having a hard time forgiving myself, letting go of guilt. And, also, I am enjoying just moving my body, especially in the yoga studio, sometimes in the pilates studio. 

Most mornings, I feel called to get up and roll out my mat and stretch and breathe. And then, some mornings, I think about how long I hope for my life to be and I am intimidated by the daunting idea that I have to get up and roll out my mat every single morning for the rest of my hopefully long life. 

Moving my body now is sometimes okay. But the idea of moving my body every day for the rest of ever is absolutely impossible. 

There are seasons for everything.

I get worried that I’ll visit home and people will notice that my body has changed because of course it has, Alex. 

I worry that noon, midday has begun to feel a little bit earlier than it ever has. There were semesters when we had the early practice block and we were up and done with lift, practice, and conditioning by 11am and I had the rest of the day to go to class and do homework and get to bed by 9:30pm. And yes, 

That was then,

And that was exactly as it was at that time.

And I am having a hard time accepting that it is no longer this and this is not meant to be that and pajamas at midday are acceptable and sometimes you get home from work at 1:30am and you just must eat the rest of the peanut butter. To soothe and relax. And you don’t yet have a light bulb for the bedside lamp so you might just need to leave the overhead light on just before bed and your circadian rhythm will not be ripped to shreds by some minutes of overhead light exposure, Alex, I promise. 

There is nothing to ruin. You are not ruined. There is nothing to ruin. No one is checking your whoop data. You are in charge.

Walking the fine, faint line between regimented and disciplined is challenging me. 

xx

Until You Know Better

Go for an ice cream. It’s worth it. Or not but like…Worth WHAT?

Let the thing be the thing — easier said than done; I have found that practicing non-attachment and letting go, moving like the breath, is essential to my peace

Go barefoot!

Great Artists Steal

The Māori approach to holistic health is known as hauora and demonstrated by Te Whare Tapa Whā model, a house with four sides, one to represent each interconnected aspect of a healthy life: Tinana (Physical), Hinengaro (Mental and Emotional), Wairua (Spiritual), and Whānau (Social). This structured approach to my gratitude practice, a gift I am borrowing from Māori culture as I learn Te Reo, helps me be in my new body every day.

My friend, when I came in for my coffee after a barre class yesterday, angry as ever at how unexpectedly difficult the class was, and how poorly I felt I performed, said “well pilates just seems like the angry form of yoga so… “ and I laughed. And I felt less angry. 

“I used to care what people thought, but now I care more / I mean, nobody out here’s got it figured out / So therefore, I’ve lost all hope of a happy ending / Depending on whether or not it’s worth it / So insecure, no one’s perfect…” Childish Gambino’s “3005” seems to have all the answers, I’m sure of it.