you should try more

but not in the way that you think.

Chlorine chokes my breath and sweat drips from my brow. Is there anything worse than being forced to put on a swimsuit and practice backstroke for a grade in front of all your peers when you’re 14? Probably, but at the moment, I’m certain nothing will ever be this unbearable again. “I forgot my swimsuit” I say to my gym teacher, who rolls her eyes and tells me I’ll be getting a zero for the day. She knows I didn’t forget, and I know that when she leaves a message on the answering machine at home, that I’ll be grounded for this weekend’s party. It’s a trade-off I’m willing to take, because I forgot to shave my legs and refuse to stand awkwardly on the edge of the pool. I know I’m fortunate enough to have a slender figure at this age, I’m even protected by it. Still, performing anything in front of anyone feels insufferable. 

I grew up an athlete, inclined to take after my dad. My coordination and body type allowed me to be a natural. The way I could move, power through, and learn new skills was instinctive. But the process never felt natural inside of my head, from the way that I was expected to perfect it each time. My dad was doing his best to make me out to be a college athlete with all expenses paid for— But my anxiety had other plans. I would step up to the plate with a full count and black out completely, coming-to while standing on first or second. I would lose whole tracks of time during practices and games and trainings. My body and mind were not connecting. The act of trying ruined it for me, long before I had the awareness to understand. 

When I step up to the plate at 8 years old, I’m not locking in and thinking about the pitch count, the signs from my coach, or swiveling my hips before my elbows. No, instead, I’m thinking about my Dad standing on the sideline, all of the people seated behind me quietly, awaiting my downfall. I’m focused on how I’ll never measure up, how the world will never forgive me, and how embarrassed I’ll be when I swing and miss; landing us the third out. I’m 8 years old and it’s really not that serious. But my body remembers it vividly.

The easier thing, the way I learned to cope with the intensity of it all, was not trying at all. 

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