Growth in Action

When I think back on the last two years of my life, I realize that there has been a lot of loss that has led me to where I am. I lost my job, I lost a coach, I lost a best friend, I lost her family, I lost my marriage, a boyfriend, and ultimately my will to live. I use “loss” broadly because only one of the people I lost has passed away. The others have moved on to new phases in life, just like I have. But that doesn’t mean that I didn’t lose them too.

Some deaths change everything.

These deaths are so traumatic, either in nature, timing or simply because of the individual, that nothing will ever “go back to normal.” I’ve experienced this kind of loss, and I can speak from experience that in the darkest, deepest, most horrific night of grief, it feels as if time has stopped. There is no end in sight; the sun will never rise again, and the world has stopped turning.

And even that description doesn’t do it justice. There is physical pain. Some people say that it feels like something has been ripped out. For me, it felt like someone punched me right in my heart center. I could almost feel the bruise spreading across my chest. The pain was so real that I was sure that my whole chest was turning a ripe purple with the blow. But no bruise manifested. My body remained untouched, and yet, something extraordinary was missing.

To my abject horror, the world didn’t stop turning. Even though the most unique, incredible person was no longer in it, still the world kept spinning. Then, a complex experience of emotions occurs. You can see and touch their bodies here, but what made them bright is missing. The fight they’ve carried every moment of their lives is absent, and there’s nothing left in front of you but a shell of them, an echo, a refrain.

I remember being angry that the world kept spinning while something so catastrophic to my life had just happened. I wondered how joyfully everyone else could carry on their lives, not even noticing that there was a hole in the universe that could never be filled again. I’m not sure I’ve ever dealt with this rage and anger. I think I have spent the last two years just being sad.

I tend to curl inward in the depths of my sadness. I call this side of me the Sad Girl. In therapy, we talked about how I built up fortifications and walls around me to keep the pain at bay. The train of loss in the last few years has been all-encompassing because it’s been in every area of my life, almost every instance; I had no control over the loss. The only ending I could choose was my marriage. And when all the loss finally ground to a halt, I had effectively pushed out anyone new from getting to me. Because it was safer that way.

If no one could get in, then no one could get out. So I wouldn’t be too invested when the next person found the exit sign and left my life. And that’s where I’ve been living for way too long.

Losing a coach is hard. Especially one that knows you as an athlete better than you know yourself. They are someone that you look up to, someone that you trust, and someone that can teach you to be better. When I lost my first CrossFit coach abruptly and without warning, it left scar tissue behind. It has been hard to move to a different gym and allow myself to get involved in that community for the last year or so. I felt like I belonged at my previous gym until I no longer felt that way. Things changed, and a rift opened up. I lost a coach, as well as the community.

Two months ago, someone from my current gym shook me pretty hard. Not physically, for obvious reasons, but metaphorically. Emotionally, I was, as the kids say, “shook.” (People still say that, right?) The deal is, silently and in a quiet girl kind of a way, I’ve always looked up to this person. I felt an instant “this is one of my people” moment when I met them. I thought that they could be my next coach. Still, I needed to keep them at arm’s length for my protection. This heart has seen too many exits and not enough entrances.

And I found myself sitting with this person in their office and them asking me, “Are you okay?”

I’m unsure how to explain how finally letting the wall crack feels. It’s both a relief and a horrible certainty that your house of cards has fallen, and everyone can see it. And to have to be seen by someone you look up to is terrifying. You want your heroes to think highly of you and not be worried about you. You want them to see you as someone worth their time and attention. But it’s also astounding that they notice enough to say something since no one else would bring it up.

“No,” I said.

Letting the walls crumble in front of your hero is unexplainable. But it was time. If my hero saw it, then I was in trouble. I went home a knew that I needed to turn this ship around. And it started the next morning when I spoke with my psychiatrist.

Fast forward to a few weeks later, when a sudden medication adjustment hit, I found myself in a mid-panic attack, doing homework. There was a time when that panic attack would have stopped the world, but my first thought was, I do not have time for this emotion. With an inner power I didn’t know I had, I pushed that emotion aside with a gentle thank you and finished my homework. I cannot let a little bad news rattle me; I must finish a task and let my panic wash over me as if the world isn’t ending. That’s a huge deal. There was a time when a panic like that would have put me under a blanket for three days.

I was keenly aware even at that moment, but even more so when the moment ended, I was still standing: this is growth in action!

I talked myself off the ledge without a second thought. I had pulled out my tools from my therapy toolbox and used them. I’m tired of living in survival mode, it’s been an exhausting way to spend my time. Just focusing on the next ten minutes at a time is something no one should have to experience. To put all your energy into just making it another ten more minutes, until focusing on ten minutes can become twenty, then thirty, then an hour, then five hours… and keep building until you stop paying attention to how long you’ve managed to survive. You’re living. It’s an overwhelming ride.

I want to dream again. I want to see beyond the next week or weekend. I want to plan for a future that feels real. I am ready to be more than just a Sad Girl.

It’s not easy. But nothing worth doing is ever easy. Is it?