Swing, tap, rotate.

I thought to myself, rotating around the bar. There was only one more skill left in the routine. Let go of the bar and “stick.”

As I ended my last rotation, I let go of the bar, “did I let go too late?”

Blackness—“Where am I?”

I jolted out of bed at 5:30 a.m. sharp. Prepared for the day, I left the house to get to the gym 30 minutes before practice started. The head coach, Tati, said being early is “on time.” The air was different in the gym; around competition season, it seemed stagnant cold—an extra heaviness mutually felt by everyone in the fog of white chalk. As a gymnast, bars were, by far, my weakest event. I’d much rather be flipping around on the beam or dancing across the floor. Warm-ups went great; all left was my “show routine.” The routine was where I would salute my coach, Florin, as if it were competition day. Waiting to salute, I had a strange feeling. Was it the chalk between my toes, or did I not eat anything before leaving my house? As my coach signaled me, I saluted back, staring at the low bar littered with ridges and cracks of chalk.

My eyes blink open. I’m on the ground. I can’t feel my right arm. As I glance, my head is shoved in the other direction. My heart rate quickens. What is Tati doing here? Florin kept me distracted. Soon after, I was taken by gurney to an ambulance, where I salvaged the chance to look at what had happened to my arm. As soon as I turned my head, I whipped it back until I arrived at the hospital to rush me into surgery. I couldn’t look at the “W” shaped appendage that replaced my right arm. Blinking my eyes, I saw the navy blue cast enveloping my arm.

In the weeks after, I fell into darkness. Not only was it my right arm that became immobile, but the right arm. The right arm is what I used to write with, the right arm is what I used to stir when I baked, and the right arm is what I used to bow my violin. Most importantly, it was the right arm I used to do the sport I loved most, the sport that was my life—gymnastics. It wasn’t until I started returning to the gym that I regained glimmers of hope. I knew that gymnasts don’t have leeway to take breaks—especially for aspiring gymnasts who dreamed of making it to D1 collegiate gymnastics—I was running out of time. I thrived on winning before the accident, knowing my name would garner the loudest applause. Back in the gym, I spent months doing physical therapy and ensuring I moved my fingers in the cast. I spent time helping my coaches with tasks around the gym to feel less immobile than I was. I started attending my teammates' competitions to cheer them on and feel the rush and adrenaline of the competition mats, podiums, and blinding lights. These moments made me want to get back in the gym.

The following year, I dreaded January 3rd, the anniversary of my arm twisting into an unrecognizable limb.  I trained and gave everything I had that year. The skills I relearned were better than before. I trained enough to be accepted into the more elite gymnastics with Tati. Winning consecutively throughout the competition season, I won first place at the Nevada State competition. Ultimately, I learned that setbacks are not the worst thing in the world and can allow anyone to flourish. I reinvented myself and found my passion for gymnastics. Being out of the strenuous environment earned me a new appreciation for the sport. Realizing that my love for the sport was not from winning but from being in the gym, I saved myself.

© Alexis . All rights reserved. If you are interested in quoting this story, contact the national team and we can put you in touch with the author’s teacher.