Ambition on the Bars

Ambition is both a protector and a destroyer. Since I was four years old, I remember walking into the one gym that would forever hold my future. I was looking at the gymnasts and seeing their determination through the glass.

As I look to my left, I see a brunette woman in a distressed white leotard with the strongest thighs I had ever seen, performing a Tsukahara on the vault (handspring onto the table with a ¼ to ½ turn, then a backflip off). I look to my right, and I see a gorgeous African-American woman in a grayish, blue leotard with grips about to jump onto the uneven bars, performing a Tkatchev (a high-flying release where the gymnast lets go, does a straddle and re-catches the bar). The sound of her hands reconnecting with the bar echoed like thunder across the gym. In that moment, I felt at home and I knew that I was born to be an Olympian in Gymnastics.

Fast forward ten years later, my summers were anything but restful. The moment I walked into that door years prior, I remember hearing my soon-to-be coaches whisper “Olympics” the way other kids’ parents whispered “College.” Their whispers were not just hopes — they became my destiny.

I was now 14 years old. While wearing a pink and black striped leotard, I walked through that door at six in the morning, prepared to spend the next ten hours expending my blood, sweat and tears, dedicated to the sport of Gymnastics. Not only that, but the extreme mental and physical exhaustion is unmatched to what other teens have felt in their existence. I woke up aching and went to bed aching, and yet, I craved it.

While the other girls were focused on learning about linear equations, trigonometry and ancient civilizations, I was full on leaning into the pain, excitement and fear of being an aspiring gymnast. I was embracing the smell of sweat mixed with disinfectant and the hum of fluorescent lights, as well as the anger of a coach when you don’t point your toes.

Don’t get me wrong; I believe there is a benefit that comes with learning those things, but my mind was in a completely different arena, and focused on a different dream. I was well liked in school, but I knew that I always had an opposite goal compared to my peers. While they were in short skirts at parties and hanging with high school boys, I was in a leotard at the gym and chasing perfection on the balance beam. Their laughter filled Friday nights; mine was drowned out by the sound of chalk snapping under my palms.

I could hear my coach bellowing, “Kara, you’re up on the uneven bar!”

My palms went sweaty. Yet, I didn’t feel fear. I felt excitement. Does that mean something is wrong with me? The fact that I feel invigorated by the idea that I have an opportunity to either ‘make’ or ‘break’ it?

I remember my best friend asking me what I could gain from such a dangerous sport. My answer was - success. Not every body can endure what an Olympian’s body can. You have to work for it. It requires the brain, the endurance, the pain, the strength and the energy that one wouldn’t even know is possible.

I begin to douse my hands in chalk, and cautiously rub my feet on the mat. I’m nervous, but I’m not intimidated. As I plant my feet, I look over to the window where all of the parents are watching, and I see my father. He is one of the most prestigious doctors in the state and someone I greatly look up to. His look is one of question and concern. Is he proud? Or is he scared?

My hands start to sweat. I can confront any friend or competitor when it comes to gymnastics, but my father is a different story. I can feel the chalk slowly disintegrate and I shake my head as I try to refocus.

From there, I begin my routine. It’s as if the entire room went still and you can hear the pounding of my hands grasping the bar. I tuck my head in, remembering what I’ve been taught throughout practice and the hundreds of hours I have put in to becoming the best. However, I can’t get my dad’s expression out of my head.

One hand slips, and I hit the mat with aggression. I can hear everyone gasp, but I know I can get back up and begin my second attempt.

As I steady myself and slowly put one foot in front of the other, I notice my dad in the window. “Kara you are done!!” He comes storming in, disregarding my coaches and the crowd.

“Drew, you need to leave right now!” said my long time coach. My father doesn’t even flinch. “She’s finished,” my father says with anger.

In the middle of a meet, my father had ended it all. An esteemed doctor, a man who knew the fragility of the human body better than most, told me he was uncomfortable with the risks. Broken bones. Torn ligaments. A lifetime of pain compressed into a childhood pursuit.

He spoke not as my dad but as a physician, and when he looked at me with both authority and fear, I believed him. I set aside the leotard and leaped instead into a safer, quieter life.

It was all gone. That summer — the summer I stopped chasing the Olympics — I learned a lesson about ambition I’ve never stopped wrestling with. Ambition propels us, but it also threatens to consume us. My father’s ambition had been for longevity, reputation, security. Mine was for flight, for glory, for the impossible. His caution drew boundaries around my dreams; my hunger pressed against those fences.

Was my father protecting me from ruin, or robbing me of my brilliance? I’ll never know. All I know is that the gym still echoes in my memory, and ambition, even caged, still burns quietly inside me.