I was not a natural athlete. I was small. I had an attitude problem. I didn’t listen. I did things my way. I was sassy and stubborn. I was passed over for teams. I was not seen as a threat. I was underestimated.
But I had goals.
I had dreams.
I had fire inside that no one could see.
I didn’t know it back then, but I was coming up with a formula for my success.
Creating an algorithm, a personal template for all future success.
I was writing big crazy number combinations on the chalkboard in my soul and “Good Will Hunting” myself right to the answer for every problem I would encounter from here on out.
I was creating my formula.
Guess what?
I’m still not a natural athlete. I’m still small. I still have an attitude problem. I still don’t listen. I still do things my way. I’m still sassy and stubborn. I’m still passed over for teams. I’m still not seen as a threat. I’m still underestimated.
But here’s the kicker.
I still have fire inside that no one can see.
I still have dreams.
I still have goals.
And…
I still have the formula.
I know what success looks and feels like for me and I know what it feels like to wait…
and wait…
and wait…
and wait…for it.
So maybe you are in the middle of that mad scribbling on the great chalkboard in your soul, and you are waiting.
You can’t see it yet but you are formulating your idea of success and defining what that means for you.
Maybe it’s not your time and you wait…
and wait…
and wait…
for something to materialize.
Don’t lose heart. You are creating your formula and when you have it,
When my daughter was a baby, I spent a lot of time helping her fall asleep. An extrovert even in the womb, it was hard for her to settle down for the night.
Never ready for the party to end, too much to say, too much to still see and experience.
She was tired, but didn’t always know it.
I’d shut the lights off, close the drapes and sit in the big green chair in her room. Then, I’d give her a little time to tell me everything she was excited about.
“Look at all these things I can do! We shall talk about them” she would say with coos, giggles and screeches.
After I fed her, I’d rock her and sing her songs.
For many months, she slept or napped right there on me.
Mom, the human mattress.
It worked.
The rocking cued her to rest her head on my chest. I’d then hold her, one arm tucked under her body and the other arm around her back holding her against me. Then I took deep, intentional breaths so that she could feel my chest rise and fall in a slow, steady pattern.
Eventually, her excitement would give way to slow, intentional breaths that matched mine and she would be asleep peacefully in her mama’s arms – our breath one in the same.
That was the secret. Breathing as one.
Peaceful. Still. At rest.
She was tired, but she didn’t always know it.
I was thinking today that God is a lot like me in that big green chair and I am my daughter. He’s patiently waiting for me to slow my breathing, settle into a pattern of deep, intentional breaths that match His and just rest.
I like to be in motion. I like to have things going and I don’t always know when I’m tired.
Tonight, I got a chance to slow down a little, take an unexpected rest.
I can’t go to my alumni game next weekend, will somebody please save me a pom-pom and get my free t-shirt?
Even though I graduated from college before some of you were even born, this stuff is still as fresh as the morning rain. I wouldn’t change a thing, but trust me if you were a collegiate athlete, you know that the struggle is entirely real.
1.Good Enough Doesn’t Cut It – You cannot get through a day without trying to do at least one thing perfect. I mean perfect, perfect. Not slightly perfect. Not kinda perfect. NO MISTAKES, perfect. Giving less than 115% is ridiculously hard, instinct kicks in and before you know it you’re full-on invested for no reason. I can no longer get myself anywhere near 100% physically but I have found ways to transfer that energy somewhere else. Dishwasher beware. Folding a t-shirt three times to get all the wrinkles out and formed into a perfect rectangle – done that. A vacuum attachment that can get the bug parts out from between the window pane and window screen was made for people like us. All the grocery bags from the car to the house, in one trip.
Pro tip: Choose your battles. No time to be perfect.
2. Paying For Shoes is Hard – It took me more than a year to buy a pair of athletic shoes after I graduated from college. Do you know how much shoes cost? I didn’t for a very long time and it still hurts to shell out the dough for athletic footwear that used to be free! Remember the first day you reported for camp? The big ol’ free bag of athletic apparel, shoes for playing, shoes for running, track suits, jackets, t-shirts, water bottles, knee pads, ankle braces (or any other sport specific gear)? All you had to do was pay for that in sweat, tears and a little blood. Not a problem. Paying actual dollars for athletic shoes? Now that’s just painful.
Pro tip: Volunteer for events that give you shoes for free.
3. Pining for the Training Room (It’s a thing) – If I could start every single day with an hour plus in the training room, life would be so, so, so good. Taped, massaged, heated, stemmed, stretched and ultra sounded to begin my day. Then wrapped with all the ice bags, filled with all the ibuprofen and perhaps an ice bath every now and again to shut it all down at the end of a long day. Pure heaven. It’s not that I can’t do most of this at home, I can, but the training room was one part PT and four parts social hour. I have found no comparison in my adult life. It is such good stuff.
Pro tip: Find a CrossFit gym and spend most of your time stretching and talking. Samesies.
4. You Still Need a Coach – Some days I have no idea where I need to be, how I’m going to get there and why I’m not surrounded by ten other people all the time. I used to think I was so organized. Turns out, I just had good coaches and good teammates. Organizing my own life without a coach and a team is so hard at times. Anyone who knows me knows exactly what I’m talking about. Wait. What are we doing today?
Pro tip: Wait. What are we doing right now?
5. Making Games Out of Everything – the desire to compete never fully goes away. But because I’m not actually a competitive athlete these days, I do need an outlet. I’m not ashamed to admit that my husband and I have gone to Chuck E. Cheese on date night just to compete at the football game without having to attend to any children. Sure we look weird being there without children and, yeah, there’s a little friendly banter but those kids waiting in line are going to have to keep waiting because I JUST HIT PRO-BOWL STATUS AND LAPPED THE TOP SCORE BY 800 POINTS. BAM! SUCKAS!
Pro tip: Do not take this out on your kids. It’s not their fault.
6. You Miss the Fans (and the applause) – Let’s face it, now that you live in real life – nobody cares. I mean, you really aren’t doing anything remarkable and so what if you used to do cool stuff, your kids and your coworkers are only concerned about what you can do for them today…like, right now. Plus, nobody is clapping or saying “great job.” This week I got my kids to school, hit a writing deadline, got cleared to back squat, nursed a sick kiddo and loaded/unloaded the dishwasher a handful of times (it’s only Tuesday). Guess what? Crickets. I miss the fans (and the applause).
Pro tip: Be your own biggest fan.
7. You Still Need Stats and Feedback – If there aren’t statistics, I don’t know what to do. How does “what we did” translate into “what can I do better?” or “how can I improve?” There is no “job well done.” We need the facts jack. We need to watch film, we need to rehash all the bad plays, we need to scrutinize the good plays and we need to know hitting percentages, assists, aces and blocking averages so we can get better for goodness sake! How are we going to get better? We need the stats! Stat.
Pro tip: Stop keeping track. You did good, son.
8. Where’s the Huddle? – Sometimes I wander aimlessly after I finish a workout or after I drop my kids at school just looking for a huddle to put my hand into. If there are six people in any given space, I will constantly be trying to get them all together just so we can count to three, say something amazing and break. I am still drawn to a huddle, to a team – a community. Collegiate sports wasn’t only being part of a team, it was being part of a bigger system, a bigger purpose, a bigger goal.
Pro tip: When there’s not enough people to form a huddle, start handing out high fives.
If you played collegiate sports (or were part of a brotherhood/sisterhood) you know that these communities can be hard to shake and can be hard to transition out of. The coolest thing is you can transfer all this goodness to other communities and other responsibilities in your life. Jobs, communities, families, relationships, churches, youth programs…you name it.
Pro tip: You learned much from your time as an athlete find ways to pay it forward, it’s a great way to stay connected to the community that was such a big part of your life.
“Look, we aren’t comparing apples to apples here. We’re comparing apples to oranges.”
You know what that meant? It meant I wasn’t one of the good kids. I wasn’t strong, naturally athletic nor was I very big.
I wasn’t one of the apples.
I was an orange.
And oranges didn’t really have what it took to be good at volleyball. What wasn’t immediately clear that came into focus over time was that my coach was right.
No matter how hard you try to keep life unbroken, eventually, it breaks.
This morning at church, I sat in the front row and sobbed.
My contorted face and streaming tears were only visible to the musicians on the stage in front of me. I doubt anybody saw me, even though, I wasn’t trying to hide my tears. They flowed freely, the rows behind me unaware.
This morning, my Aunt passed away. She had recently been placed on life support after a long struggle with various illnesses and health issues. My aunt’s family, my parents and sister had been by her bedside for several days as her life teetered and clung to each labored breath.
Her vitals monitored by machines and a staff of doctors and nurses.
Her communication reduced to hand squeezes and eye blinks.
The last time I saw my Aunt was when I was with my family this summer and we were celebrating her 70th birthday. She was always quick to smile and say something complimentary and she did so that night.
This morning at church, I sat in the front row and sobbed.
I’ve always thought “Amazing Grace” was a song about my salvation. My own redemption. My own need for grace. The realization that despite my mistakes, despite my flaws, despite my pride and bad decisions that there was a God who would offer me grace.
Grace,
a concept that I grapple to understand on a daily basis. This morning at church, it dawned on me that perhaps God’s grace is never fully expressed in our time here on earth. Maybe I’ll never fully understand the concept in this physical lifetime, but only when I finally see him face to face. Blind on this earth, but seeing in his presence. Lost, doing and saying all the right things here in physical being, but found spiritually, completely, in his presence.
“Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost, but now I’m found. Was blind but now I see.
I can see you now. I can see the love in your eyes.
Laying yourself down. Raising up the broken to life.”
This morning at church, I sat in the front row and sobbed.
I wept for my aunt. I wept for the family she leaves behind. I wept for the pain they will feel here on earth. I wept for the sadness that she lived much of her life in physical pain. Life, broken.
Then I thought that even though she wasn’t here anymore, she was realizing God’s full expression of grace. Seeing, hearing, running – life, unbroken.
It sounds trite. I’m too smart and too old to believe in fairytales like that. Sure, whatevs.
I don’t write a lot about my faith.
It doesn’t mean I don’t have it.
This morning at church, I sat in the front row and sobbed.
Ever been stuck under a heavy back squat? It can seem impossible to get out from underneath. photo: Adam Bow
“You don’t have time to feel sorry for yourself, you have a family and a child who needs you,” words my therapist said once upon a post-partum depression.
It sounds harsh, but it was true.
I didn’t have the luxury of wallowing about anything anymore. Not that I’m one to wallow anyway, but in this case I didn’t have a lot of control over these circumstances – and that made it worse.
My therapist wasn’t trying to be harsh nor was she issuing a challenge to be mean or get something out of me I couldn’t do. She was telling me the raw facts. Life is not easy, but we need to go on. In essence, what she meant was I had to work the process and do the emotional work even when I felt sad or angry or confused or overwhelmed or like giving up.
My life had gotten very heavy in an instant but I was going to have to keep moving despite the 300 lb. back squat I felt buried beneath.
Big life changes are no joke. They can be debilitating. Seeing up over the top of the heaviness you are piled underneath can seem unbearable and on days when a shower seems like Everest; taking care of yourself, let alone others is a distant thought.
But you used to be so capable.
I know. Some days it’s just the shower.
So, take the shower.
Here’s what my therapist meant that day. There comes a time when, despite the crap filled hand we are dealt, we have to find ways to plug into life and keep fighting. Fighting for us, fighting for the people who need us. We have to do the emotional work and go to those places that feel dark and lonely and confusing and overwhelming and we have to walk through them.
Even when we can’t.
It seems counter intuitive and it is and you say “well, you don’t understand” and I probably don’t.
But if you need to ask for help, then do that because we don’t have the luxury of ignoring stuff, side stepping issues, hiding from relationships or self-medicating our pain.
That just cannot be the answer.
And there is an entire culture of kids being raised by parents who refuse to plug in. If you don’t believe me, look around. We all have a choice.
Look, things take time.
After the divorce, the job loss, the diagnosis, the death, the birth, the wedding, the separation, the let down, the manipulation, the deception…afterthe thing, we have to keep moving.
Slowly, sure, but in a forward direction.
Remember the 300 lb. back squat that’s been weighing you down?
It’s made you stronger. It’s actually given you power.
When you finally stand that weight up, you’ll realize that you are ready to move on. To do the things you’ve always done.
Get help when you need it.
Let people stand in the gap for a time.
And when you are ready you can and will move mountains.
(I should clarify that 300 lbs. is not a weight I’ve ever gotten on a back squat. I can’t say I’ve ever even gotten 200 lbs. heavy is heavy regardless of your PR).
I’ve always fancied myself a sky with clouds, but I’ve had to learn to live with and grow in the heat.
When I was a kid I remember my parents taking us to one of those glass blowing shops where they crafted a small glass figurine right in front of you. I was fascinated at how the glass would bend and twist under the heat like molten liquid but once it cooled you didn’t dare try to bend it. I remember getting my initial made and then stained in my favorite color, green. I can still remember my small head peeking up over the ledge to get a closer look at the workmanship, standing to my tippy toes in an effort to make myself just a bit taller.
Last week, I had the privilege of taking my children to watch artisan glass blowers create an intricate vase right before our eyes. Instead of peering over ledges on our tip toes, the glass shop had us sit in the same room as the craftsman about thirty feet from the fiery kilns. Despite large fans blowing to keep the room cool, we could still feel the extreme temperatures on our skin as we watched the workers begin the process.
First a small piece of glass (silica, soda ash and borax) is pulled from the large kiln. It is a bright piece of molten glass that looks like a miniature sun and seems just as bright.
The craftsman uses a long stainless steel pipe, called a blowpipe, to transfer air from his mouth into the hot glass attached at the other end. He blows it into a small bubble and then rolls it onto a steel table to make a circle or sphere, actually. He takes turns blowing air into the glass and rolling it onto the table to make the desired shape before returning it to the kiln for another layer of glass. Once removed from the kiln, he blows again into the steel pipe and rolls it onto the flat surface until it is no longer round, but oblong.
He takes much time to get the oblong shape so perfectly oblique that we are all surprised when he takes one end and begins to twist the piece into a sort of double helix. He then returns the object to the kiln adding another layer of glass and so on and so forth until the double helix is no longer on the outside, but just a pattern on the inside. Two craftsmen worked in tandem to look for symmetry, flaws, small bubbles or other nuances in the piece.
When the piece is mostly done, the two craftsmen hold it under a blow torch to work through the last stages of hand-crafting. They hold it under the blow torch to keep the glass hot and pliable without having to return it to the kiln each time. The piece remains attached to the steel pipe for the entire crafting process until the very end when one of the two craftsmen takes a small hammer and carefully, but forcefully, breaks the entire piece from the steel. With a blow torch, they reheat the point where they broke it and even it out with a flat stamp – creating a base.
Finally, the vase is placed into an oven to cool. More heat. 24 hours later, the vase is taken from the oven and allowed to cool. It is at this time that it begins to show what the artisan refers to as it’s “true colors” – meaning it will change colors as it cools.
My husband and I have been in the heat for some time. I mean figurative heat and quite literally, the heat of the Arizona desert.
I do not like the heat. Never have. I’ve always preferred cooler temperatures where I can layer clothes, wear boots and see my breath. If you see your breath in Arizona it’s because it was your last gasp on earth and your innards have turned to dust. Not a lot of layers to wear or breaths to be seen here.
But as I sat and watched two artisan glass blowers create something beautiful and amazing and fragile and intricate out of silica, soda ash and borax and lots of fiery heat, I thought maybe I’ve got it all wrong. Maybe the heat is exactly where we need to be. Our life has some very beautiful moments. Moments you snap and post to the instagram of your mind. That beauty is born out of the moments after being placed in the furnace. See, we don’t make a lot of memories IN the fire. It’s once we are out of the furnace and in the cooling oven where we pause and take note of where we are.
It is the moments just after the furnace when the craftsman takes your life and begins to smooth out your shape as he rolls you onto the cooler surface. Just when you think you are done, he returns you to the heat to add more life to your years, more layers, a twisty pattern not to be seen on the outside, but on the inside. No, you cannot touch the pattern, but you can see it because the glass surrounding you is clear. That is until you are placed yet again into the heat of the oven to cool down while time allows your “true colors” to form.
Most of us look at the heat as unbearable. Myself included.
The heat is what makes us who we are. It is where we learn what we are made of and most of the time I’m not interested in knowing.
I’ve fought it (ever see a stray ember trying to escape a bonfire? That’s me).
I’ve screamed in the furnace.
I’ve cried in the furnace and no matter how many tears fall in that fiery place, there are never enough to cool it even just a bit. It’s unrelenting heat must do it’s work.
But when the craftsman pulls you from the furnace and forcefully but swiftly breaks you from that steel blowpipe, your true colors will show.
You will emerge a work of art. Someone created out of fire. Someone created over time. Someone created with patience and care. Someone with intricacies only those willing to see will find.
If you are in the fire, hang on.
The craftsman still has you on that steel blowpipe and you aren’t done. You will emerge stronger, more beautiful (if not more fragile) and more intricate than you could ever imagine.
I’ve been in the fire enough times to know, we all make it out okay.
A little hot at first, but once we cool our true colors will emerge and when they hit the sunlight just right, we will be reminded that the fire is only temporary.
The world rarely rewards or give praise to people who see small details. Nuances. People who notice the sad person at the party.
We encourage. We exhort. We blend in.
No.
The world wants shiny.
Fast. Faster. Fastest.
Strong. Stronger. Strongest.
Don’t get me wrong. I too am drawn to sparkly things that catch my eye in the sun, elite athletes and attractive, beautiful things. As a kid, I admired the popular kids. The way they moved seamlessly in crowds, the way they could talk to anyone, the way they were effortlessly interesting. The way they showed who they were without telling us everything. The way they did all the things we’d expect them to do – dance well, act well, dress well, behave well.
Trust me, I played the game.
The world gives awards for all kinds of things and when they are out of rings, ribbons and medals, they’ll give you a certificate so you don’t feel bad about yourself.
Participant, they’ll say.
Thanks for coming out, it reads.
But there aren’t any awards for the kids who spend the summer in their rooms curled up with a stack of books or the ones who are distracted because they are doodling masterpieces in the margins of their notebooks during class.
Nope.
See, no one is going to give me a medal for setting limits for myself in a workout – for knowing what I can and cannot do. No, the medals go to those who throw down and push as far as they can – and I’ve got plenty of those in a box in the garage. No one will hand me a plaque for telling the eight year-old street vendor in Mexico that I don’t want an ankle bracelet so that I can “be more sexy” because things like kindness, intelligence, courage and faith are more important to me than being sexy. Nobody will announce my name from a podium because of the hope I have for that kid to be different than every other man in his family. No silver or gold medal around my neck for spending the past several nights since I met him praying that his life is different.
That kid waved me off and laughed at my suggestions as he looked for the next table of ladies to give his pitch “Want to see my secret weapon bracelet?” he says with a wink.
I’ve never gotten prize money because I can feel, actually feel in my whole body, when someone is hurting or hiding or just getting by. No one cares about that cute waitress because, she’s cute and dressed well and so therefore she’s fine. But I know better because I can sense that maybe she needs a few extra bucks added to the tip. I don’t know her struggle, but it’s there because I hear more than the words she speaks. No one saw the homeless man listening to his radio at the entrance of a restaurant while he lit up a pipe full of who knows what – but I knew he needed some food and so I brought him some even if he was high. Because that’s not my call and I’m not looking for praise or for your confirmation.
His name was Jim and he had excellent manners. “Thank you, Priscilla” he said when I told him my name (he asked) “and God bless.”
I spent most of my life winning awards to meet the world’s standards and I wouldn’t trade that for the world. But now that I am unable to do physically what I could do in my youth, I see how fickle and focused the world can be about their prizes. Everyone clamoring for a place on the podium. The red carpet. The stage.
Me?
I just want people to know. Prize or no prize. Medal or no medal. Podium or no podium.
We’re all pretty amazing just as we are. Even if we don’t cause one single ripple in the pond, we’re all part of a bigger picture.
We all play a part.
I am way more than a box of trophy’s and plaques collecting dust in the garage. I’m a testimony. I’m an example. I’m a story.
When I played volleyball, I was an outside hitter.
That means I spent most of my time on the left side of the court and attacked the majority of sets from the outside or left side.
In order to get the best positioning to hit either angle or line, you had to begin your approach outside of the court, about ten or twelve feet back from the net and between a one and two feet outside of the court. You are usually at about a forty-five degree angle to the net and you have enough room to take a three or four step approach.
I took three.
Left. Right. Left.
From that position on the court, I was able to see everything I needed in order to put the ball away on the other side. I could see how many blockers I had up, where the defensive players were set up on the other side, whether or not there was a hole in the block or if I was up against a solid two or three person block and many other nuances a hitter needs to process in a short amount of time.
If I was in the right spot to attack, I’d have excellent perspective on the situation before me so that in the two seconds it took for the ball leave the setters hands, I could make a decision on where to hit the ball.
If I could assess all that, I’d have a better shot at winning the rally for my team. If I was too far inside, my vision or perspective might be limited to what was immediately in front of me. If I was too far outside, I might not make it to the ball in time for an effective attack. I had to be three steps away to begin my approach to be most effective.
Left. Right. Left.
Over the past year or so, I’ve taken on several amazing projects. I’ve worked hard for them all, asked questions and have sacrificed what little “free time” I have to pursue them.
I love all of them.
However, there are times in the midst of a project when I can get very limited vision. I can become so invested in details that I lose focus as to the purpose of my role in the project. I may begin to feel envious that others are better than me at a certain skill set or that they have more experience than me.
Sometimes that feeling makes me want to try harder, invest more time, take on more commitments in that particular arena even when that’s not my strong suit.
Sometimes I feel like I need to be doing what someone else is doing.
I start to lose perspective.
That’s when I have to remind myself to take three steps back.
It’s not just a volleyball thing. It’s a life thing.
When I take three steps back and view something, some project, some friendship, some commitment from the best position – I can better assess the situation.
Left. Right. Left.
I have a better shot at winning the rally for my team.
See, I have to know what I am good at and execute that set of skills for my team. I may be called upon to play another position or step in for another team member from time to time, but I am the most effective when I am doing what I am best at.
I am best when I take three steps back and see exactly where I am needed for a certain play.
Don’t get me wrong. Sometimes you need to be in the thick of things.
Sometimes you need to be right up in the action, because that is where you are needed.
But when you feel overwhelmed, over committed or like you can’t quite see why you have chosen something, some friendship, some job, some relationship, take three steps back.
If what you see isn’t something you need or want to be a part of, step off the court.
If it looks good from there, go ahead and attack.
And if perhaps, you are playing volleyball – just swing at the ball, this is a metaphor not my advice for outside hitters.
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