Well, here we are, on a snowy Monday at the end of March (side note... seriously?), and Week 3 of the CrossFit Open has come and gone. And I can honestly say, these have been some of the weirdest, most tumultuous, most physically and mentally taxing weeks I can remember. I've run such an insane gamut of emotions... from on-top-of-the-world elation to feeling like a complete and utter failure, and everything in between; if it can be felt, I've probably felt it over the past 21 days. I've laughed. I've cried. I've spent more time than I'd like to admit lying on the mats in a pool of my own sweat. But, above all, I've done a lot of reflecting and soul-searching. Because, while the Open has definitely pushed me to my physical limits, it has pushed me so far
through my emotional limits that I have found myself in all sorts of weird places mentally over the past three weeks. Some of them good places, some of them not so good places.
Last week was a not so good place. 13.2 was an enormous learning experience for me in so many ways, but it did nothing for my self-esteem. Despite almost convincing myself that I was okay with my score, and despite distracting myself with a 5K PR and a pseudo-enlightened blog post, I was never quite able to get past what I perceived (and, admittedly, continue to perceive) as a failure. And I'm ashamed to say, I let that sense of failure creep into the rest of my life, both inside and outside the box. I have a tendency to internalize things far more than I should, and this was no exception. So, combined with some ongoing personal crap that has been bringing me down, I was carrying around this burden of perceived failure that seemed to weigh more than all the pounds I've lost, and then some. It didn't make for a good week. I was stressed, sleep-deprived, sucking at all my WODs, struggling to keep up with my work load in the ER, and secluding myself from the people closest to me, because I was feeling so down and I didn't want to bring them down with me.
When 13.3 was announced, it only made matters worse: a 12-minute AMRAP of 150 wall balls, 90 double unders, and 30 muscle ups. With the exception of throwing in some pull ups, I really couldn't have asked for a worse WOD. Wall balls and I have never seen eye to eye... I can never get in a rhythm, and more often than not end up missing the target and catching the ball with my face. And the idea of me getting a muscle up is just a joke... but a joke that I didn't even have to think about, because there was no effing way that I was going to make it through 90 double unders. Anyone who has read this blog consistently knows how I feel about double unders. Next to the evil pull up, they are pretty much my nemesis. Some days, I can get one or two. Most days, I can't get any. And all of the successful double unders in my entire CrossFit career don't add up to 90. Which was all fairly irrelevant anyways, since the likelihood of my slow ass finishing 150 wall balls in less than 12 minutes was about the same as the likelihood of flying monkeys descending from the heavens and pooping small bricks of gold all over my front yard.
I don't know if it was lack of sleep, the ridiculous amount of undue stress I was putting on myself, extraordinarily shitty timing, or a combination of all of the above... but by Friday morning, I had made myself physically ill. I had a miserable case of bronchitis, and the hacking cough and burning chest that came with any type of exertion did not bode well for the following day's WOD. On top of that, I still hadn't been able to get any good sleep, my shoulder was still bugging the hell out of me, and worst of all, my BADASS socks were still missing. And as ridiculous as it sounds, I felt like I'd lost all of my badass mojo with them. I just couldn't seem to get myself back to the awesome place that had taken me so long to find... the place where my best was good enough, and where I found as much joy in the effort as in the result. It was a culmination of a lot of crap resulting in a craptastic attitude, and I couldn't seem to shake it. If I was ever certain of anything, it was that absolutely no good could come from 13.3. I was on track for another big fail and another week of beating myself up about it.
On Friday afternoon, after over an hour of scouring the house, I finally found my lucky charm BADASS socks. (They were stuffed under the couch. I suspect canine involvement.) But despite my high hopes, there was no magical moment once they were finally in my grasp. I still felt down, and sick, and just as hopeless about 13.3 as I had before. Wherever my mojo had gone, it wasn't with my socks. And I really just didn't know how to find it and coerce it back into my body where it belonged.
When I woke up Saturday morning still hacking and still feeling crappy in every sense of the word, I almost decided to go back to sleep and forget the whole thing. I had an easy out; no one would criticize me for taking a sick day and coming back for 13.4 the following week. But I knew that, as much as I hated the idea of doing 13.3, I hated the idea of
not doing 13.3 even more. So I put on my badass socks, prayed to the badass gods that they still had a bit of mojo left in them somewhere, and headed to the box. I had no goal score in mind... no great expectations and no hope of an epic performance. My only goals were to get through the WOD, to not go into respiratory arrest, and to walk out of the box not feeling like I'd given up. If I could do those things, I told myself, I could be satisfied. Maybe not happy, but I'd be able to live with myself.
The anxiety and nerves from the previous two Open WODs was nowhere to be found. Instead, they had been replaced by a sense of dread and foreboding. I just wasn't feeling it. All through my warm up, I was thinking about how much I wanted it all to be over with so that I could go home and rest my weary body and mind. Even as I stood at the wall with my 14-pound medicine ball poised and ready, I waited for the last-second surges of anxiety and adrenaline and focus that always wash over me as the 10-second timer begins.
Nothing.
No excitement. No fear. No heady rush of desire to perform. I just wanted it to be over.
When the buzzer sounded, I started methodically chipping away at my wall balls. A set of 15. A few sets of 10. After a couple of no-reps for not hitting the target, I finally fell into a rhythm (or as close as I get to a rhythm when it comes to wall balls) and let my body take over. It hurt. My shoulder hurt, my lungs hurt, my legs hurt. By my 50th rep, I was already feeling run down, and I had to stop every minute or so to have a coughing fit. But as I pushed through with my mind set on my one goal (don't quit), I realized that I felt better than I had all week. There was something that felt bizarrely satisfying and good and
right about flipping the bird to my injury, my bronchitis, and my shitty attitude, and persevering despite them. It felt like a small victory in the midst of a week of failure. It felt more like the "me" I wanted to be than the "me" I'd been all week. And, truth be told, it felt just a little badass.
Balls to the wall!
Why can't my legs look as good just walking around
on the streets as they do in my WOD pictures?
MAD PHOTOG SKILLS: Jess Bova managed to capture on film
the EXACT MOMENT when I hacked up a chunk of my
left lung, kicked it out of the way, and then kept going. :-P
My 150th wall ball hit just above the target and thudded triumphantly to the ground with 31 seconds left to go in the WOD. By that point, my lungs were shot to hell and I was desperately wishing that I hadn't forgotten my inhaler in the car. I had every intention of calling it a day, satisfied with making it through the wall balls and knowing full well that double unders weren't going to happen. But around me, my friends were cheering. And next to me, Tammy was giving me a pointed look that very clearly said, "I know exactly what you're thinking right now, and it's not gonna happen. You will try for double unders or else." And because saying no to Tammy is far less appealing than even double unders, I picked up my jump rope and took a stab at it.
And I'll be damned if I didn't get one.
Two, in fact. Which is not even remotely impressive, and actually would be considered by most to be fairly comical. But considering that I had been fruitlessly practicing double unders on my back patio all week without getting a single one, those two little double unders were a definite victory. A small victory, but a victory none the less. And sometimes, all it takes is a small victory to make a big difference. This time, when the buzzer sounded and I collapsed in a heap on the floor, it was a relieved, satisfied heap, instead of the defeated post-13.2 heap of the previous week. I'd done it... I'd finished. I'd lived. I hadn't given up, even when I'd really, really wanted to. I'd been able to fight through sickness, soreness, and (above all) my own negativity and turned it all into something positive. And it felt great.
I watched Toni, Kate, Jess, and Chris rock the shit out of 13.3 before I had to scurry off to perform an important bridesmaid duty: my lovely Alexis Layne is getting married in two months, and Saturday was the day of the bridal shower we hosted for her. I was still sick, sore, and sleep-deprived, but the morning's small yet significant victory had rejuvenated me. After many hours of rushing around, loading and unloading cars, and setting up months' worth of craftiness into a fairly epic mimosa and Bloody Mary bar to surprise the bride to be, the bridesmaids and I were able to flawlessly pull off a beautiful shower for our dear friend. I think she loved it. And I
know we all loved the bar (knees up? OKAY!), so by my standards, total success. After three weeks of focusing obsessively, unhealthily, and almost exclusively on CrossFit, it was nice to have something unrelated to focus on for awhile, and even nicer to be able to do something beautiful for someone I love. The shower was a much needed reminder that my life outside the box does not need to be dictated by my failures within the box. And to be in the presence of good friends who I know will love me no matter how epically I fail my Open WODs... good for the soul. And honestly, the mimosas didn't really hurt either.
'Twas a thing of beauty that I created.
Emily Gold and Associates: making day drinking look classy since 2013.
Available for your next social event. ;-)
My favorite fat kid indulgence of all time: Vanilla Pastry Studios cupcakes.
TO DIE FOR. I will have you know that I was in the presence of these beauties all day
and did not so much as taste one. #postkarenwillpower
Love these girls!!! Congratulations, Layne! <3
After starting out the day feeling like a completely worthless failure, defeated before I even began, it felt good to end it feeling warm, fuzzy, victorious, and loved. Whether that was from my relatively acceptable 13.3 performance, the successful shower, being surrounded by good friends, or the substantial champagne and vodka consumption, I'm not certain. All I know is that, by the time I dragged my exhausted but satisfied self home for a nap, I felt like I'd gotten some small shadow of my old mojo back. And it couldn't have happened at a better time, because I don't think I could have handled another day of feeling crappy about myself.
I woke up Sunday morning miraculously hangover-free (the older I get, the more I appreciate the beauty of day drinking) and still feeling pretty good mentally but a little rough physically. My brain told me that I should be sticking to my training schedule, which contained an 11-mile run that day. But my lungs and legs were screaming for a rest day, and for once, I decided to listen to my body on this one. (I'm beginning to learn that my body isn't nearly as stupid as my brain most of the time.) So I chose to take the day off to rest up for work, and to take advantage of the rare free time to do some serious soul searching. I was so, so relieved to finally be out of the dark place I'd gotten myself into over the past week. But the question remained... how did I end up there in the first place, and how do I avoid going back there again?
Months ago, when I first decided to sign up to do the Open, I wrote about my tendency to be seriously overly hard on myself, and how I feared that bringing a competitive aspect into CrossFit would alter my dynamic with the sport. I knew, going into this thing, that I would need to be careful not to let my competitive nature and self-critical tendencies turn something I love into something that would frustrate and disappoint me. I told myself that it would be a motivating learning experience, and that no matter what my scores were or how low I ranked on the leader board, I would allow myself to be happy with the experience, the challenge, and the knowledge that I was doing my best.
That worked out great for 13.1. I went in with a reasonable goal, blew it out of the water, and shocked the hell out of myself, leaving me feeling accomplished and enormously proud. Which, for a normal person, would be a great start. For me, it was where I started to crumble. After that, I started having higher expectations for myself. I wanted to have good scores on all of the WODs. I wanted to keep feeling like I was kicking ass. I wanted to keep impressing my coaches and keeping up as best I could with my fellow athletes. By the time 13.2 rolled around, I had heaped so much pressure on myself that, when I didn't live up to the expectations in my head, it kind of broke me down. And, as I have a tendency to do, my failure to meet my own standards ended up with me feeling like I sucked at CrossFit. And since so much of my life lately has been dedicated to CrossFit, sucking at CrossFit = sucking at life. Not rational or sensible, I know. But it's how my brain works under pressure. And this was no exception.
You'd think, being as aware as I am of how my crazy brain works, that I would have been able to see it coming, change my mindset, and go about my existence. So why did I let my irrational feelings of inadequacy take over and permeate every aspect of my life? After a year of being able to find the positives in almost every situation, of feeling more confidence and self-esteem than I've ever felt in my life, why was I suddenly incapable of feeling good about myself?
For the past few weeks, I've been receiving a lot of counseling from a wise friend about my mental game, which, as I've learned from this Open experience, is holding me back far more than any physical skills that I'm lacking. Despite not having known me for all that long, this friend seems to have an almost uncanny level of understanding for my many neuroses, and has been an endless source of support, motivation, and perspective through the past few weeks. So on Friday night, when I was feeling totally downtrodden and was embarrassed to talk about it with most of the sane, rational people in my life (obviously they would laugh at me... "IT'S JUST CROSSFIT. Chill the eff out!"), I decided to confide in this friend and share with her how I was feeling. Miraculously, there was no laughter or judgement, and she actually seemed to understand. It stemmed an ongoing conversation that has forced me to take a good hard look at a lot of things.
Primarily, we talked about motivation: the things that drive us, versus the things that should drive us. At the beginning of this journey, I was driven by all the right things: self-love, self-respect, and a desire to improve my life. It was that simple. Everything I did was motivated by my desire to better myself... nothing more and nothing less. There were no expectations, no written-in-stone goals, no unattainable standards. All I wanted, at the end of every day, was to feel that I was healthier, happier, and stronger (both mentally and physically) than I was the day before. As long as I was moving in the right direction, I felt good about myself. And the better I felt about myself, the easier it was to move in the right direction. Then I discovered CrossFit, and fell in love with everything about it: the way it made me feel, the way it changed my body, and the way it empowered me like nothing else I'd ever done. No matter how badly I sucked at the WODs, every time I walked out of the box on my own two feet (or occasionally crawled out on my own hands and knees) was an epic victory. It was so easy to stay positive and optimistic when I truly loved what I was doing and how it was changing my life. Like Tammy is always telling me, positive affirmations lead to positive outcomes, and the more I felt like a badass, the more badass I became. That's how my badass mojo was born.
I don't know when it stopped being so positive. It was kind of a gradual process, and I didn't even notice it at first. But somewhere along the line, my self-deprecating humor had become progressively less humorous and more self-deprecating. I wasn't consciously aware of the shift until a day a few weeks ago, when I stopped at Mojo to pick up a race packet. I ran into a few TPA-ers at the shop, and we were talking about the upcoming 13.2 Open WOD. I made some off-handed comment about my inevitable impending failure... jokingly, perhaps, but like most such jokes, with a layer of truth behind it. And my Fairy Shoe-Mother Jenn, who has been one of my most vocal and reliable supporters from day one, narrowed her eyes at me in an impressively intimidating glare and said, without a trace of humor in her voice: "You know, all of your negative talk is really starting to piss me off."
I laughed it off at first, but that was the moment that I first started to notice the subtle change in my attitude. I really had become rather negative. When did that happen? And, more importantly, why?
At first, I thought it was all tied to the Open, and to my inability to cope with the stresses of competing at something in which I knew I couldn't really be competitive. I'd known all along that this would be a challenge for me. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that this started well before the Open. It wasn't until my friend/pseudo-therapist pointed something out to me that I was able to really put my finger on it, but once she did, it became so absurdly obvious that I can't believe I didn't see it before. It all came down to one word:
Validation.
Somewhere along the line (and I'm still not quite sure when), it stopped being enough for me to do my best. I had stopped being satisfied with the effort and had become focused solely on the results. At some point, I had started seeking validation from outside sources to define my success, rather than defining it on my own terms.
For me, that validation came in several forms. It came in the form of numbers: the amount of weight I could lift, the number on the scale, a score, a pant size, a race time. I started gauging my level of success based on quantitative, measurable components. If I could get that PR, or lose that last five pounds, or shave two minutes off of my 10-mile time, I was succeeding. Which was great... back when the numbers were in my favor. But as the PRs slowed down, and the weight loss stopped, and my run times started to level out, there was no measurable, concrete evidence of progress... and that, in my mind, was a failure. I'd somehow lost the ability to find joy in the process; to appreciate the simple thrill of tackling a tough workout, or the exhilarating feeling of facing a fear head-on and coming out on the other side in one piece. It had become a numbers game, and lately, I'd been losing.
In addition to relying on figures and stats to measure my success, I realized that I'd also taken to depending on another outside source for validation: the people in my life. I will confess that the positive attention I've received as a result of my weight loss and fitness journey has been a powerful motivator all along. It felt so good to constantly be told how thin I looked... how impressive my story was... how well I was doing. Vain? Absolutely. But after being fat for my whole life, the admiration was new and exciting and extremely flattering. For 30 years, no one had ever even thought to use my name and the word "inspirational" in the same sentence, but there I was, hearing it daily, and it felt amazing. It drove me to want to work harder and continue to impress people. Nothing made me happier than the moments when I knew I had surprised my box mates with a big lift, or impressed my coaches by pushing outside of my comfort zone, or ran into someone I hadn't seen in awhile and watched the shocked recognition register on their face. This outside validation became especially important to me at the box. I admire the people there so very, very much... my coaches, my fellow athletes... everyone has just made such an enormous impression on me, and on the person I want to be, that I desperately wanted to live up to being a part of the team. If I could impress these total badasses, surely I was succeeding.
Again, this was all fine and good... back when I was making noticeable daily progress and my body was changing by the minute. The compliments and positive comments and exclamations of admiration for my journey came in at an alarming rate, and it was so damn motivating! But now that progress has slowed, there's really nothing about me that stands out. I'm just another person trying to survive my workouts (and usually not doing a very good job of it, I might add), and I feel like I just kind of blend in with the crowd. Which is totally fine... I couldn't ask for a more badass crowd, and blending in with the TPA crew is an honor in and of itself! But when you start basing your success (and, accordingly, your self worth) on numbers and validation from others... when the numbers stall out and the external validation starts to fade... where does that leave you?
I'll tell you where that leaves you. It leaves you feeling like a giant worthless failure.
After my friend/pseudo-therapist made this point, it was instantly so glaringly obvious that I felt like a complete idiot for not realizing it sooner. The moment that I let CrossFit become more about external forces than about my own journey... that was the moment that it lost its magic for me. Out of nowhere, all of the joy and freedom and empowerment that I used to feel after a WOD had been replaced by doubt and second-guessing and over-analyzing. I still loved it. I was still wanting it, wanting every piece of it. But I was wanting all the wrong things: big scores, big PRs, confirmation from everyone around me that I was on the right track.
Well, excuse my language, but FUCK THAT.
I know I'm on the right track. All it takes is a glimpse in the mirror or a quick stroll down memory lane to know, without a doubt, that I am slowly but surely moving in the desired direction. Sometimes there are steps backwards, and sometimes I get sidetracked and wander off course entirely for awhile. But I always find my way back eventually, and I don't need anyone to point me in the right direction. I know where I want this path to lead me, and I know that I'm well on my way. And as nice as it is to hear that from other people, especially people who I deeply admire, I don't need to hear it. And it certainly should never be the primary source of fuel lighting the fire under my ass. It can't be numbers, and it can't be from other people, because the fire will burn out quickly. That flame, that drive, that burning need to propel forward and push farther down the path... it needs to come from within. It needs to come from that place that helped me find my snatch PR in 13.1... from that place that wouldn't let me quit my box jumps in 13.2 even when I knew the outcome wasn't favorable... from that place that gave me the tiny but much-needed gift of two little double unders when I felt like there was nothing left to achieve in 13.3. It needs to come from the place deep down inside of me that gave me the stamina to run through the end of Colin, the strength to finish Angie, and the determination to not succumb to Fran's evil ways. The place that gave me the courage to sign up for the Open, despite the fact that the mere thought of it completely and utterly scared the shit out of me. Because it's that courage... that drive... that burning determination that makes my journey special. Not how much I can dead lift or how many double unders I can do or who I impress along the way. It's about recognizing the fact that the results are just the icing on the cake, whereas the effort makes the man. It's about enjoying that effort; about loving every second of what you do and everything that is stands for and every drop of sweat you leave in your trail. And above all, it's about loving yourself.
I'm halfway there. I love CrossFit. I freaking love it. I love the challenge, the exhilaration, the element of brutality that sets it apart from anything else I've ever done. I love being part of a team. I love that there's a moment, in every single WOD, when some part of my body... whether it's my legs, my lungs, my arms, my abs, or that pesky organ inside my skull... that desperately wants to quit. I love finding that moment, isolating whichever part of me wants to give up, telling it to shut the eff up, and powering through to the end. And I love that, no matter what decides to crap out on me on any given day, there's one part of me that has yet to give up: my heart. Even at my lowest point, before 13.3 when every ounce of me wanted to throw in the towel, it was my heart that made me pull on my badass socks and go to the box anyways. It's always there, beating strong, driving me to do the seemingly impossible and swelling with pride each time I succeed. Whereas I've found my brain to be my biggest weakness, I think my heart is my biggest strength. It is so full of love for this journey... love for the sport, love for the people who have come into my life, love for all of the benefits I've reaped and all of the ways it has changed my life for the better. Even love for my failures; because although I don't have a pull up, or double unders, or a sub-30 5K time, these shortcomings give me something to fight for, and keep that flame burning brightly. And honestly, all of those things will come with time, if I am willing to give it to them. My biggest challenge right now is to take some of that overwhelming love that I have for CrossFit, and TPA, and my new lifestyle... and to be able to truly love myself. Not for what I can do, but for who I have become, and who I have potential to become next. If I can do that, if I can really, truly get there, then the future is limitless. If I can figure out that piece, the rest will fall together eventually. I just know it.
It won't be easy. Self-loathing is a learned behavior, and I have a shitload of practice at it. But in all honesty, nothing about my journey has come easily. I've had to fight for every inch of it, and I know I'll have to fight for this as well. But I'm game. I think the first step is to cut out the negative talk, even if it is for the purpose of humor. I think I need to be less hard on myself; to worry less about what I'm getting out of my workouts and focus more on what I'm putting into them. I think I need to go into the last two weeks of the Open expecting that there will be things I'm just not ready to face yet... and knowing that I will give them my best shot anyways, because that's all I can do. And I need to keep it in perspective and appreciate it for what it is: a challenge that took a tremendous amount of courage to even attempt. I need to embrace the suck, and take something away from every single rep and every single attempt. Because every rep I do in this thing is one more rep than I would have had the balls to try at this time last year. And that, in and of itself, is just a little bit badass. I need to remember, every day, what it is that I love so much about this sport, this journey, and this life... and every day, I need to appreciate every moment I get to spend doing the things I love, whether or not the outcome is what I desired or expected.
After my friend/pseudo-therapist helped me to come to this conclusion, I couldn't wait to put it to practice. After a long and taxing night shift last night, I absolutely couldn't get to the box fast enough this morning. When I got there, ready to rock in my BADASS socks and DO EPIC SHIT shirt, this was waiting for me:
Talk about a test of my new and improved attitude! I've been dreading Mary since the day I learned about the Girl WODs... and there she was, staring me in the face, daring me to open my mouth and bitch. We all know how I feel about pull ups. Pistols are just nasty. And as for hand stand push ups... let's just say that I have what you could call a bit of an inversion phobia. I'm terrified of flipping upside down, even with the wall there to catch me. I know it's absurd, and I have no idea why it scares me so much. But I had yet to successfully get up onto the wall without Tammy there to spot me. And since it was just me and the boys at 8:30 today, that was especially mortifying. For a moment, I felt the old anxiety and doubt making its way through my brain. But today, I was able to fight it off. I decided that, for today, I wouldn't count my rounds or worry about what everyone else was doing. I would just focus on my form, on making strides, and on enjoying the feeling of pushing my mind and body beyond their respective comfort zones.
But first, it was my favorite thing ever: back squat day! I love them. I don't know why, but I do. And I always love max lift days with the boys, because watching them as they put up huge numbers effortlessly is weirdly motivating for me. Today was no exception. My legs were still hating me a little from the wall balls on Saturday, but I was able to churn out 5 reps at 175lbs, which I believe is a new 5-rep max for me. I went for 195, got in two good reps at that weight. Then I saw that Patrick was going for his one-rep max, even though it technically wasn't part of the WOD, and I knew I wanted to do the same. So I loaded up my bar at 205, which was my previous PR. And then I added two baby 2.5-pound plates... it just felt like a PR kind of day, and despite what I'd determined earlier about not letting numbers get into my head, I wanted to see if I had it in me. I totally didn't. At least, not on my first try. But I went for it again. And this time, I got it. My 210 pound back squat. BOOM. Just like that. Woohoo!
The rest of the WOD, surprisingly, went almost as well. I kept my promise to myself to focus only on doing my best and having a great workout, and I was shocked to find that I actually kind of enjoyed Mary. I used a band for my pull ups and to help with my pistols, but I let myself be okay with that. It's where I need to be right now. As for the HSPUs... for the first round, Tammy spotted me and helped me get up on the wall. They weren't pretty, and I can't get my head anywhere near the floor, but they were infinitely better than they had been in the past. Progress. But by the time I was ready to start round 2, my spotter was occupied: one of the guys had ripped the crap out of his hands doing kipping pull ups, and Tammy was taping him back together. I thought about waiting for her. But then, I realized... no one is watching you. If you're going to fall on your head and look ridiculous, this is as good a time as any to do it. So I took a deep breath, said a quick prayer to those gods of badassness asking them to not let me break my neck, and flipped.
Up on the wall, first try!
This was a huge and very unexpected victory for me today. Even upside down, I couldn't stop smiling, and the look of surprise on Tammy's face when she turned around and saw me inverted on the wall was pretty classic. After a few rounds, I found myself actually enjoying the upside down portion of the WOD, and at one point even caught myself hurrying to get in my 15 pull ups so that I could squeeze in one more round of HSPUs. They're actually pretty freaking fun once you get the hang of the flipping part. Once I get my upper body strength where I want it to be, I think those will be one of my favorites. Who would have thought?
It was a good day. Perhaps even a great day. Finally, I was able to rediscover everything that I love about CrossFit, and it felt amazing to have that back. And I think I found my missing mojo, too. Only, as a wise friend told me, it was never really lost. It was in me the whole time... I just needed to remember how to channel it.
It feels great to have my head back in a good place. The challenge, now, is keeping it there. Realistically, I know I will still be freaking out on Wednesday when 13.4 is announced. Because, let's face it, that's what I do. I freak out, and I overthink, and I dwell like a crazy person. But as long as I can remember why I'm doing this, and appreciate it for what it is... as long as I can focus on the good and be satisfied with the not so good... I know I will come out okay on the other side. We all will. So if any of my CrossFitting friends out there have been struggling internally with these Open WODs the way I have, just remember that. And I'll try to do the same. Would it be awesome to put up a big score and see my name higher on the leader board? Obviously. That's what we all want. And I truly believe we will all get there... some of us sooner than others, but we all have it within ourselves, with time and effort and a little bit of faith. Of course it would be awesome to prove ourselves to the world, to make our box look good, to impress our friends, to silence our haters. But at the end of the day, the important thing to keep in mind is who you're really doing it for. And I'll give you a hint... it isn't any of those people. And it never will be.
*Congrats to my TPA loves on another amazing week, and I wish you all the best of luck as we tackle 13.4 together. And to my life-saving pseudo-therapist... thanks for the epiphany! You are the best. Seriously.*
