13.2: My Own Worst Enemy

It's official: Week 2 of my first CrossFit Open is over.  And let me tell you... it has been one crazy emotional roller coaster of a week.  Maybe even more so than Week 1.  Yesterday was ridiculously intense in so many ways, and I still haven't completely decided how I feel about it.

After Open WOD 13.1, I was on a major high.  I was feeling proud, accomplished, and incredibly motivated after what I perceived as an epic victory.  I'd had my first taste of competition, and I couldn't wait to do it again.  I felt unstoppable for a few days there.  I was hitting it hard at the box all week, and continued to have small but significant gains as a result of my new-found focus.  On Monday, I made progress on my clean and jerks, and did the whole WOD above the prescribed weight.  Tuesday's WOD was a revisitation of an old nemesis: the snatch.  It was an AMRAP of toes to bar, wall balls, and power snatches, and I did both the snatches and wall balls above the prescribed weight with good form.  (I think I've finally learned not to fear the snatch... EMBRACE THE SNATCH, PEOPLE!)  Wednesday's WOD started with max 5-rep bench press (PR!) followed by another AMRAP, this time thrusters and deep box jumps.  My right shoulder was a little irritated going into this one, and the thrusters didn't help, but I pushed through the WOD and was happy with my performance.  By the time I left for work on Wednesday evening, I was nervous about the 8pm announcement of 13.2, but feeling surprisingly confident and hopeful.  I was on a roll, and I felt like I was ready to take on whatever was thrown my way.

When Tammy texted me the WOD just after 8 that evening, I almost didn't believe it at first:

Workout 13.2

10 minute AMRAP of:
5 Shoulder to overhead, 115 / 75 lbs
10 Deadlift, 115 / 75 lbs
15 Box jump, 24 / 20 inch

My initial reaction was surprise, followed by excitement.  I could do this WOD!!!!  It would be difficult, for sure... overhead isn't where my strength is, and 75 pounds was going to be rough by the end.  But the 75-pound dead lift would be a breeze, and we do box jumps all the time at TPA.  I couldn't have asked for a better WOD!

The rest of my night shift flew by.  I couldn't wait to get back to the box and get in one more awesome workout before taking Friday off to rest and attacking 13.2 on Saturday.  I was in the zone, and couldn't have been more excited to get this show on the road.

And then Thursday morning came.  I knew, as soon as I saw the whiteboard, that I was not going to have the awesome day I'd hoped for.  The WOD was three rounds of 500m rows, 25 push ups, 150 double unders OR 150 jump tucks, and 25 pull ups.  We can rename this workout the Emily Gold FAIL WOD, because with the exception of rowing, I suck at every single one of those things.  But I was game to give it a shot.

Unfortunately, as I went through my warm up, my right shoulder continued to become progressively more irritated with every movement.  By the time we were ready to begin the WOD, it was so sore that even hanging on the pull up bar was painful.  Tammy had me modify the workout to leave out the pull ups and double the push ups instead.  But as it turned out, my shoulder was the least of my worries.  Double unders... freaking double unders.  Some days I can successfully manage some of them.  Thursday was not one of those days.  I ended up doing a billion jump tucks, which beat the hell out of my knees and low back, and by the end of the WOD, I felt like a total failure.  Just like that, my post-13.1 high had been replaced by a sense of impending doom. 

Knowing that I would be taking the following day off, I refused to end the WOD on a crappy note.  So I decided to stick around afterwards to bust out a few burpees (voluntary burpees?  I know... I've lost it), and then pulled out a box to get in some final work on my box jumps.  I decided to try something I'd been putting off because it scares me a little bit: the 24-inch box.  I don't know why it looks so much bigger and more intimidating than the 20-inch box, but I figured that, if I could master this scarier box, the 20-inch box would seem like a breeze on Saturday.  Much to my surprise, I didn't have any trouble at all with the bigger box, and did three 15-rep rounds before calling it a day.

By Friday morning, I knew I'd screwed up.  I should have listened to my body and taken Thursday off as well... my shoulder was killing me, and to make matters worse, my calves were screaming from the additional box jumps.  This was no way to go into 13.2.

And, in true Emily style, that's when the panic set in.

I was a mess all day Friday.  You'd think that going into a WOD that I knew I was capable of completing would be less intimidating than the vast unknown of 13.1, but I think it really just caused me to put more pressure on myself.  I knew I should be able to succeed at this WOD... which made me even more nervous about the possibility of failure.  It's one thing to put in a mediocre performance doing something you know you suck at (burpees and snatches, anyone?), and just getting through seems like a victory.  But it's another thing entirely to be mediocre at things you do all the time and should be able to handle.  The thought of sucking at 13.2 was infinitely more nerve-wracking than the thought of bombing 13.1 had ever been.  Plus, I knew I was running out of Open WODs that I'd be able to get through... double unders and pull ups are coming.  Not to mention muscle ups, which I've never even attempted and am 100% certain I am not physically capable of pulling off.  This could be the last week in which I'd even have a score to submit.  And I wanted it to be a good one.  I wanted it bad.  More than I'd wanted the 75-pound snatch... more than I'd wanted 101... I wanted to feel good about this WOD.  I wanted it so much that it drove me a little crazy.  Or a lot crazy.

I spent all day Friday icing my shoulder and popping ibuprofen like candy, with no real relief.  Because I'm an idiot, I watched the online video of Annie T spanking the shit out of 13.2 at least 20 times, further psyching myself out.  But the icing on the crap cake came when I was getting ready for bed and laying out my WOD outfit for the morning... and I discovered that my "BADASS" socks were GONE.

Yes.  GONE.  MIA.  Nowhere to be found.  I don't know what has become of them, or how a pair of socks just disappears into thin air.  But I do know that I am neurotically, bat-shit-crazy superstitious, and the thought of tackling 13.2 without my lucky socks was beyond bad.  It was catastrophic.  Instant 11/10 on the freak-out scale.

Yes, over socks.

And yes, I am aware that I am completely insane.

After a few hours of sleep frequently disturbed by vivid nightmares (one in which Julie and Tammy appeared at my house to seize all of my TPA t-shirts after I scored a zero on my WOD, and another in which I get through my overheads and dead lifts only to find that someone has stolen my box, and I spend the rest of the 10-minute AMRAP running frantically around looking for it... again, yes, I know I'm crazy), I once again found myself wide awake at 3am with nothing to do but freak out about the upcoming WOD.  Without my lucky socks.  Longest.  Morning.  EVER.

By the time I finally got to the box, I was in end-stage panic attack mode and honestly wasn't sure how I was going to make it through the WOD.  My shoulder still didn't feel right, my legs were stiff from taking the previous day off, and my brain was all over the place.  And I kind of felt like puking.

But then, something magical happened.

When I walked in the door of the box, Tammy was waiting in her usual spot.  She looked at my feet, shook her head, and said, "Uh oh.  You can't WOD in those socks."  And then she tossed something at me.

BADASS SOCKS!

Tammy had brought her own BADASS socks from home for me to borrow so that I wouldn't have to face 13.2 without my good luck charm.

I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.  I know it may seem like a small gesture, but the fact that my coach a) knows me well enough to understand that, in my crazy brain, I needed those socks, b) hasn't kicked me out of her box for said craziness, and c) actually brought me her own socks to wear to appease my craziness... I was so touched.  Not to mention super stoked to have the power of BADASS on my feet where it belonged.  It was just what I needed.  I was still freaked out, but the vomit-inducing panic had faded somewhat, and as I took off my shamrock socks and slipped into the borrowed badassness, I felt my focus start to return.  It was time to get down to business.

THANK YOU, TAMMY!!!!

As I went through my warm up on auto pilot, I thought about the WOD ahead of me.  When I'd first discovered what the workout entailed, I had set a goal of 200 reps.  However, as the week had gone by and a few people at the box (who are far more badass than myself) had put up scores below the 200 mark, I knew I needed to lower my standards.  Speed is not my forte, and I was still worried about the overhead weight, especially with my shoulder still bothering me.  180 sounded like a more reasonable goal.  6 rounds in 10 minutes.  That should be doable.

As the clock ticked closer to 6:00, people had started to arrive at the box.  I was the only person being judged at 6, but the 6:30 crew had arrived to start their warm up, and a few awesomely supportive spectators had dragged themselves out of bed at an obscene hour on this chilly weekend to cheer me on.  Part of me was, as always, nervous to have an audience, and worried that I would let them down by putting in a performance unworthy of the early alarm clocks.  But a bigger part of me was enormously grateful for the support.  In addition to the coaches and the 6:30 crew, Lynn, Heidi, and Jeannie were all there, waiting to watch me tackle 13.2.  My anxiety was through the roof, but underneath that, my heart was bursting with gratitude for the kindness of these people.   With the exception of Lynn, I hadn't even known them at this time last year, but there they were, at 5:55am on a Saturday, offering their support and encouragement when I needed it most.  Just awesome.

Anyone who read my 13.1 post knows how very influential Jeannie was to last week's Open WOD, and that was without even seeing her in person.  So you can imagine how awesome it was to have her there, in the flesh, with an endless supply of wisdom and excellent yelling skills.  Like Tammy, Jeannie has an uncanny knack for knowing exactly what I need to hear and when I need to hear it.  I honestly couldn't tell you what she said to me in her pre-WOD pep talk (by that point, I was so deep inside my head that I wouldn't have remembered my name if you'd asked me), but I know that it hit home, because it calmed me down enormously.  And as I gave Tammy the go-ahead to start the ten-second timer, I repeated my new mantra over and over again in my head:

Want it.  Want every piece of it.

Deep breath...

3... 2... 1...

When the buzzer sounded, everything around me faded away.  It was just me, the bar, the box, and the task ahead.  I was vaguely aware of the shouts of support from my friends and coaches, but the only sound that really registered in my brain was the sound of Tammy counting my reps.  I'd come up with a strategy, and I planned to stick with it: get through the overheads as best I could, bang out the dead lifts as fast as possible, and just keep moving on the box jumps.  I'm slow at them, but I told myself that, as long as I didn't stop, I'd at least be fast enough that I could make up for some time on my dead lifts.  So, that's what I did.  The first round of presses felt good, and I don't even remember noticing any pain in my shoulder.  I flew through the dead lifts... I can't imagine my form was any good, but at 75 pounds, it doesn't really have to be.  Then I hit the box (which, thankfully, no one had stolen while I wasn't looking), and other than getting no-repped on my first one for not extending my legs fully, those felt good, too.  Slow, but steady and unbroken.  Then round one was done, and I was on to round two.  Again, everything felt good, and although I knew better than to look at the clock (no distractions for me this time... focus!), I felt like I was keeping up a decent pace.

Things started to get tricky towards the end of my third round of box jumps.  I was getting winded, my legs were starting to burn, and I knew I was hitting that point in the WOD where I had two options: take a breather and regain my strength, or push through and hope for the best.  Usually, I go with the breather when it comes to box jumps, because I tend to have fairly epic wipe-out moments if I don't.  But in a 10-minute AMRAP, there's no time for a breather.  So I did my best to disconnect my brain from my body, ignored the burn, finished out the round of box jumps, and hurried back to my bar.

I went to clean the bar off the ground, and suddenly, my arms felt like jello.  I bobbled the clean, dropped the bar, and had to start over.  I'd know that the overheads would get hard at some point, but I'd hoped it would be later on in the WOD.  Here I was, starting my fourth round, and I was already struggling to get the bar over my head.  But I was able to knock out my five presses, slowly but surely, and flew through the dead lifts.

Starting to get painful...

...but the Jew-fro's still flyin'!

The fourth round of box jumps was brutal, but I made it through unscathed.  The fifth round was almost my undoing.  75 pounds never felt so heavy... cleaning that bar off the ground felt impossible, and the overheads were brutal.  I wasn't sure I was going to be able to get through five of them.  But somehow, I got that damn bar above my head and finished out the reps cleanly.  It was ugly, and painful, and full of some seriously unattractive facial expressions:

...but they all counted.  The dead lifts again acted as my breather time, and I breezed through those without problems.  And then there were more box jumps.

I knew I was screwed during round 5 of box jumps.  My lungs were on fire and I felt like I couldn't breathe.  My legs had gone through the burning phase, through the numbness phase, through the wobbly-jello phase, and had settled in the muscle-spasm phase, and it felt like I couldn't make them do what I wanted them to do.  Everything hurt.  Every jump took everything I had.  About halfway through them, I made the mistake of finally glancing at the clock... 1:43 left.

All of the air went out of me for a second, as I did a quick mental calculation and realized that, no matter how fast I moved now, I wasn't going to be happy with my score.  I'd been too slow, and now, with enough time left to suffer but not enough time left to achieve a satisfying score, I felt completely defeated for a split second.  I wanted nothing more than to stop, gasp for air, chug some water, and finish with a few more half-assed box jumps to run out the clock.  What difference did it make, anyways?  I knew I wasn't going to be happy with my score either way.  Why keep killing myself if I've already failed?

And that's when Jeannie really started yelling.

I'm pretty sure everyone was yelling, but because Jeannie was right in front of me, she was the one I heard the most clearly.  And after the briefest of defeated pauses, I got myself out of my head for a second and let their cheers and shouts of encouragement really reach me for the first time all morning.  I realized that these people had dragged their asses out of bed to support me, and I wasn't about to let them (or myself) down by quitting now.  I was going to finish out this round, and I was somehow going to squeeze in the sixth.  Or I was going to die trying.  Just jump.  Breathe and jump.

Then I was at the bar again.  Again, I bobbled my clean, but was able to get the bar over my head once, twice, three times.  Number four was beyond shaky.  Number five, I couldn't lock out my arms and had to drop the bar... no rep.  It took everything I had to clean the bar off the ground for that one last overhead...

...but somehow it happened.  Then the dead lifts were over, and I was facing the box again.  I didn't let myself look at the clock, but I knew my time was running out.  I honestly have no idea how I managed to get onto and off of that box during my sixth round.  I've survived Zeus, wrestled with Colin, and fought my way through Angie... but never in my life have I felt as completely and totally gassed by a WOD as I was by 13.2 this morning.  I think it was sheer will power, driven by nothing but desire and the energy of my screaming friends, that carried me through the last few seconds of box jumps, because I can honestly say that I had nothing... nothing... left.  But I didn't stop.  I felt like I was moving in slow motion, but I kept hurling my big ass up onto that box, again and again, until the buzzer went off and I collapsed on the ground, completely and utterly spent in a way I don't think I've ever experienced in my life.  Physically, mentally, emotionally drained.

179.

As I lay flat on my back on the mats with my eyes closed, gasping for air and trying not to throw up, I realized that I'd fallen drastically short of my initial goal.  And, more depressingly, I'd fallen just short of my adjusted goal as well.  I hadn't done what I'd set out to do.  I'd set a bar for myself, and I didn't reach it.  I hadn't made it to 180, or anywhere close to 200.

Essentially, I had failed.

I knew it was irrational to think of it as such.  I had literally given that WOD every single ounce of everything I had, and then some.  I kept going long after my body tried to quit, and with the exception of a two-second freak-out during round 5, I hadn't stopped.  There were no breathers or water breaks.  I hadn't backed off.  I'd gone so far out of my comfort zone that we might as well have been in different zip codes... I had hit a wall, climbed over it, and kept going.  For ten minutes, I had 100% given my all.  I can say with great certainty that I did the absolute best I was physically capable of doing.

So why did I feel so crappy about it?

Everyone surrounded me, congratulating me and telling me how awesomely I'd done.  But I was physically incapable of getting off the floor, and mentally incapable of feeling anything but an irrational and crushing sense of disappointment.  So for a few minutes, I just stayed there, sprawled out on the mats and trying to make sense of what was going on in my head.

When I finally got up, I was met with hugs and congratulatory sentiments that were enormously touching but somehow felt unearned.  I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd failed.

As the 6:30 WODers began setting up for their shot at 13.2, I snuck outside to get some air and try to clear my head.  It was still dark, raining, and frigidly cold, but I needed a moment to gather myself before I could go back inside to cheer on my box mates.  So I sat on an icy wooden step, buried my head in my hands, and tried to sort through the emotions I was experiencing.  I had done the best I was able to do... this much I knew.  So why did I feel like a failure?

The more I thought about it, the more clear it became.  I wasn't upset because I hadn't done my best... I was upset because I didn't feel like my best was as good as it should be.  Or, rather, not as good as I wanted it to be.  The past year, and more specifically the past 7 months at the box, have been full of such wonderful, life-changing victories for me.  But the more I succeed, the more I want to succeed.  The more I accomplish, the more I want to stop being good "for Emily", and start being just plain good.  I've built up a lot of expectations for myself.  And somewhere along the line, my expectations had surpassed my physical capabilities.

I'm hyperactively critical of myself.  I'm driven, I'm ambitious, and I hold myself to high standards.  I know this about myself.  It has been the driving force behind everything I've accomplished since February 8th, 2012.  But when those standards get too high, it's a recipe for disaster.  There's a big difference between having big dreams and setting unattainable short-term goals, and that line blurs in my head sometimes.  Instead of being excited about finishing my second CrossFit Games Open WOD and doing something I wouldn't have dreamed of doing a few months ago, there I was, sitting in the freezing rain and playing the "what if" game over my score.  What if I'd locked out my last overhead and hadn't gotten no-repped?  What if I'd practiced the transition between overheads and dead lifts?  What if my box jumps had been just a hair faster?  What if I'd worked harder?  What if I'd wanted it more?

The truth of the matter is, none of that would have made all that much of a difference.  For where I am in my fitness journey, 179 isn't a bad score.  In fact, it's pretty okay.  I don't have the speed or the stamina that I'd like... yet.  But it's not for lack of trying.  I don't think I could work a whole lot harder than I have been working and not die.  5-6 days a week at the box isn't exactly a slacker's schedule.  And I don't think there has ever been a question of whether I want this enough.  In fact, sometimes I wonder if I want it too much.  I did everything I could to prepare for this WOD, and I gave it my all.  What more could I possibly expect of myself?

With this thought in mind, I pulled myself together and went back inside, where Pam, Jess, and Chris were preparing to start their workouts.  I tried to set my focus on cheering for my box mates as they had cheered for me, but I must have looked distracted, because Jeannie pulled me aside and quietly asked me what was going through my head.  Without going into detail, I admitted to her that I was disappointed in my score and had hoped to do better.

We talked for awhile, then, about how I was feeling and why.  That woman is either psychic or just really good at reading people, because she was able to pretty much pick apart my brain, drag out every reason why I was feeling upset, and find a way to invalidate it.  She had so much great advice, but the one thing she said that really stuck in my head was this:

"Your score is just a number.  It doesn't define you.  This day, this competition, other people... don't let any of it define you.  You define you.  Nothing else."

(See?  So wise.)

Jeannie's words really got me thinking.  I asked myself, if 13.2 had been just about me... if I hadn't been watching videos and stalking the online leaderboard and comparing myself with athletes across the world... if it was just another WOD on just another day... would I have been happy with my performance?  I didn't even have to consider my answer.  I would have been thrilled.  I wouldn't have even cared about numbers or reps, because I would have been so freaking proud of myself for really going after it and and giving it everything I had.  I would have looked at the positives: how I'd been able to do most of my box jumps unbroken for the first time, and how I'd done all of the overheads at a weight that, three months ago, was my max three-rep push press PR.  I would have been able to smile, think about how far I've come, and leave the box feeling satisfied and proud.  But instead, I really was letting the competition define me.  And Jeannie was right... nothing should define me but me.

I felt a little less defeated after our talk, and was able to divert my attention to my friends as I watched them get their piece of 13.2.  Again, everyone did amazingly well, and it was so exciting to cheer them on and watch them fight for it.  Jess put up another monster score, Pam killed it and beat her goal score by a landslide, and Chris made it look easy.  For the millionth time, I found myself feeling proud to be a part of TPA.  Being happy for my friends made it easier to ignore the lingering bubble of disappointment in my chest that refused to pop.

Primal Mayhem that morning was exactly what I needed: DODGEBALL, CrossFit style.  This is seriously the most fun a grown-up should be legally allowed to have at 7am on a Saturday, and it is literally impossible to be in a bad mood while people are whipping colorful rubber balls at you.  It was a great group, and a great time.  Lynn stayed for her first Mayhem, Jeannie stuck around and got in on the dodgeball action, and even Tammy jumped into the game.  It was an absolute blast, and the light-hearted fun was just what I needed to drag me out of my head.  I loved every second of it.

(Side note: my legs and I would like to thank Greg for the ridiculous number of wall balls and burpees he served me.  After 89 box jumps, those felt AWESOME. Well played, sir... well played.)

After Mayhem, there were 3 more rounds of Open WODs to watch, and once again, the TPA athletes rose to the challenge.  Everyone was amazing, and it was so exciting to watch everyone push their limits and exceed their expectations.  Seriously inspiring stuff.  By the time it was all over and I was ready to leave the box, I was feeling a little better.  Still inexplicably bummed out, but better.

But alas, my morning of beatings was not yet complete.  I still had the Shamrock Shuffle 5K waiting for me.

The Shuffle is a local 5K in my little town of Harmony, and it was also the first 5K I ever ran when I initially started this journey.  So it was only logical that I would run it this year and celebrate the 1-year anniversary of my racing adventures.  However, I hadn't really taken into account that the Shuffle and 13.2 would fall on the same morning.  Nor had I considered how badly I would be hurting after 13.2.  Between the WOD and Mayhem, my legs were literally shaking, and running was the last thing I wanted to do.  Plus, it was cold, alternating between rain and snow flurries, and I had run out of time to go home and put on sensible clothing (meaning I would be running in 32-degree weather in my WOD shoes, shorts, and no jacket)... not an appealing thought.

But Lynn had signed up for the race just to keep me company, and I thought it would be kind of shitty to back out on her after everything she'd done for me that morning.  So off to Harmony we headed to collect our time chips and freeze our asses off.  The race ended up getting off to a late start, and by the time we were finally lining up at the starting line, I was feeling frozen, cranky, and more down on myself than ever.  I decided that I would chalk this race up to an extended cool-down from the morning's workout.  I was way too tired and sore to go for a good time, and I didn't think I could handle the disappointment of shooting for a PR and failing yet again.  Not today.  I would just get through it, shake off this whole weekend, and start fresh on Monday.

As the race kicked off, I went on autopilot and, in an effort to not think about how badly my legs hurt, I let my mind wander back to the morning's WOD and the feelings surrounding it.  All of my earlier negativity bubbled back up to the surface.  I hadn't managed 6 measly rounds.  I hadn't reached my goal.  I had tried my best, and was rewarded with the realization that my best still pretty much sucks.  And that, my friends, is an epic kick in the face.

But then I looked to my left, where Lynn was running a few feet away.  I knew she wanted to be running this race about as much as I did (aka NOT AT ALL)... but there she was.  And there she'd been that morning, cheering me on and supporting in me.  And I thought of Jeannie and Heidi and the coaches and my fellow Open WODers, and everyone who had been there for me that morning, and always.  I thought about borrowed badass socks and pep talks and all of the other little ways that people had offered me support and kindness.  I thought about all of these people who seemed, against all odds, to truly believe in me.  So why, when it really counted, did I have so much trouble believing in myself?

All of the questioning and doubting and over-analyzing and second-guessing... where had it gotten me?  It had gotten me here, on a cold, wet street in Harmony, slogging along on aching legs and wallowing in a cloud of self-loathing and self-pity.  And why?  Because I was one point short of an arbitrary number that I'd picked on a whim?  Because I watched a video of Annie Thorisdottir doing seven million reps and somehow thought I should be able to keep up?  Because, after all this time, I seem to have reverted back to the scared fat girl who never truly believes that she will ever succeed at anything?  Jeannie was right.  It wasn't about those things at all.  Or, at least, it shouldn't be.  None of those things define me.

I define me.

I define myself.  I define what constitutes success and failure.  I define the things I do and how I react to them.  I define my future.  I define who I am, and, more importantly, I define who I am going to be.

I might not be thrilled with my definition of how the morning had started, but I could most certainly control how it ends.

I could run.

I could push through my mental and physical exhaustion, fight through the aching legs and burning lungs, and run this race.  I could give myself something to be proud of, instead of one more thing to regret.  I could define this race, this day, this whole week... in this one moment.  I could make the choice to try.

So I did.  I ran.

It wasn't fast, by any standards.  I was fighting against legs that literally didn't want to move, my chest felt like it was on fire, and the rest of me was so cold that I could barely feel it.  But I kept running.  I ran through the streets of Harmony, past my own street, and along the trails that I run almost daily with my dogs.  And as I ran, I felt a little bit of freedom... freedom from the horrible feeling of defeat that had been plaguing me since 13.2.  I had done my best then, and I would do my best now.  The rest of it shouldn't matter.

This day does not define me.  I define me.

As I rounded the last bend over the bridge and took off on my finish line sprint, I felt strong and exhilarated in a way that only a really good sprint can make you feel.  And as I crossed the finish line and glanced at my watch, I was stunned... if my watch time was anywhere near my chip time, I'd beaten my previous 5K race PR by over a minute.  And I'd beaten last year's Shamrock Shuffle time, for the same course, by a ridiculous 15 minutes.

This... this I could be proud of.

I met back up with Lynn, and we enjoyed our complimentary post-race beer.  But I was beyond exhausted in every way that a person can be exhausted, and I desperately wanted to curl up with my dogs, rest my weary body, and try to process the onslaught of conflicting emotions that were fighting for the forefront in my brain.  When I got to my house, I ate a Quest bar, submitted my score on the CrossFit Games website, and laid down on the couch to do some soul searching.

I was asleep within minutes.

When I woke up two hours later, my whole body hurt in a way that I haven't felt since that first painful week of CrossFit.  Not yet ready to drag my ass from the couch, I pulled up Facebook on my phone to see what normal people were doing to celebrate everyone's favorite beer-centric holiday weekend.  I found a message in my inbox from Jeannie, and it instantly put a smile on my face.  Once again, she had completely nailed it.  Among other words of Jeannie wisdom, this piece stood out to me:

"All of this... the emotions, the fear, the excitement, perhaps disappointment... all of it has its place.  And none of it is bad.  Like I said... let you define you, nothing else.  Your passion should be you.  CrossFit is a piece of you... you gave it everything you had, and that's what it's all about.  The only thing you should ever get on yourself for is not giving it all.  So, chin up."

She was right, 100%.  And for the first time all day, I was able to believe it a little bit.  Anything you truly love... anything to which you really give your heart and soul... is going to be difficult, and emotional, and it isn't always going to go as well as you might like.  You can't be a hero every day.  It's okay to feel disappointed with a poor performance.  But 13.2 hadn't been a poor performance... not really.  It had been the absolute best that I'd had to give.  There's no shame in that.  In fact, it's kind of badass.  By the world's definition, my score of 179 pretty much sucked.  But by my definition, could I really have asked for anything more of myself?  I don't honestly believe that I could.  It was time to shed this cloak of disappointment, recognize my effort, and move on to what comes next: a fresh week of WODs, and 13.3.

That inspiring message wasn't the only surprise waiting for me on Facebook.  While I'd been in my post-WOD, post-Mayhem, post-race coma, Tammy had posted pictures from earlier in the morning.  Jess had used her badass photography skills to capture my 13.2 effort for the world to see, and I was almost afraid to click on the album link.  If that WOD had looked half as terrible as it felt, the pictures were bound to be terrifying.

But when I started looking through the album, I was shocked.  I honestly barely recognized myself.  I didn't see the fear, disappointment, or frustration that flooded my memories of the WOD.  Instead, I saw strength.  I saw determination.  I saw someone struggling, but not folding... I saw someone fighting tooth and nail for something that she obviously wanted in a huge way.  Sure, the form was bad, some of the facial expressions are mortifying, and there are several shots in which it appears that I am about to projectile vomit on some unsuspecting spectators.  But no one could look at those pictures and believe for a second that I wasn't trying, or that I didn't care.  In those pictures, I saw the version of myself that I've been striving so hard to become:  an athlete.  A fighter.  And someone who never, ever gives up, no matter how hard it gets.  The form, the speed, the strength... that will all come with time and work.  But drive, grit, and determination... those things I have.  And if I give myself the chance, they will take me wherever I want to go.  There's no time limit on this thing.  In 7 months at the box, I've accomplished things I never dreamed of even attempting.  Who's to say where I'll be in 7 more months?  A year?  Five years?  There's no rush.  I'm in this thing for the long haul... I'm way too hoked now to turn back.  I just need to get my mental game under control in order to maximize my physical game.  Once I do that, who knows what will happen?  With the right mindset, the right work ethic, and the right support network, anything is possible.  Right now, I have two of the three.  And with the help and wise advice of my amazing TPA family, I'll get my head in the right place eventually.  When I do, I'll be unstoppable.  13.2 might not have been the epic success that was 13.1, but it was an important milestone for me.  I learned that my biggest weakness isn't my pull up... it's my brain.  And that is going to take a lot more time and effort to master.  But I'll get there.  Someday.

In the meantime, I'm going to keep fighting.  Fighting to be stronger.  Fighting to be faster.  Fighting with my mental demons and the mind games that hold me back.  Fighting to not let anything define me but me.  Because in the end, that's what really counts.

*To everyone at the box who came to cheer me on yesterday, and everyone who has shown me so much support and kindness through this terrifying but amazing Open experience so far... thank you.  You have no idea how much difference it makes.  You are truly amazing.*