13.5: Endings and Beginnings

Well, it's over.

The 2013 CrossFit Open has come to a close.  This evening, scores from around the world will be finalized, and we'll all know where we stand in comparison to 140,000+ other CrossFitters across the globe.  The best will move on to Regionals, and the best of the best will then go on to the Games.  But for most of us, this is the end.  We'll go back to our normal routines... back to our regularly scheduled programs of quietly working towards our goals and slowly but surely fighting to strengthen our weaknesses.  No more Wednesday nights glued to the computer screen waiting for the WOD to be announced.  No more Saturday mornings arriving at the box before the sun is up to prepare for 6am go time.  No more score cards.  No more searching for our names on the leaderboard.  For most of us, it's over.

For me, however... I can't help but feel that it has only just begun.

What a wild ride this has been.  The past five weeks have been so incredibly emotional... exhausting, exhilarating, frustrating, encouraging, humbling, uplifting, and a million other emotions that I can't even begin to put into words.  There have been amazing highs and heart-plummeting lows, and everything in between.  And it all culminated in today's 13.5.  It didn't turn out as I wanted.  But, somehow, it ended up being exactly what I needed.

This week was rough.  I never did quite get to a place where I could be happy, or even satisfied, with my performance in 13.4.  That failure of mental fortitude really affected me in a way that no physical failure ever could.  No matter how hard I tried to let myself off the hook and embrace the successes among the failure (95lb clean and jerks?  Toes to bar?  Awesome, right?  Not so much -- in my mind, at least), I continued to feel discouraged and downtrodden throughout most of the week.  My confidence took a big hit on that one.  And, to make matters worse, something in my heart told me that 13.5 was going to be some twisted, cruel variation of my most feared and least favorite WOD of all time: the evil bitch known as Fran.  I just knew she was coming for me.  Somehow, it just seemed fatefully inevitable that this life-altering, emotionally-charged mindfuck of an experience would culminate in a rematch with my arch nemesis.  I wasn't sure in what form she would present herself, or what sick twists she would throw in... but one thing was certain in  my mind: the 2013 CrossFit Open was going to come down to me and Fran.

So between feeling like crap about 13.4 and panicking about an inevitable impending Franfest, I had a lot of trouble getting my head in the right place this week.  Throw in the fact that I'd already endured 4 weeks of this madness and a shit ton of overtime at work over the past few weeks with very little sleep in between, and you have one physically and emotionally exhausted Emily.

Then, on Tuesday, something amazing happened.

I. GOT. A. PULL UP.




*pause for dramatic effect*




I got a pull up.  A pull up!!!!!!! 

If you have been following my journey at all, you know how epic this is.  For just over seven months, the pull up has been my ultimate enemy.  My Achilles heel.  The one movement that it truly felt that I would never be able to do.  Progress on these has been slow to non-existent for the majority of those 7+ months.  A few months ago, I had a breakthrough and was able to ditch my fat black band and graduate to a thinner green band.  At that time, I was certain that my unassisted pull up would develop any day.  But since then, progress on my pull ups had come to a screeching halt.  No matter how much better I got at everything else, pull ups just weren't happening.  It was so frustrating to finally be able to do the prescribed weights on most of my WODs, only to have a stupid band come between me and an Rx any time there were pull ups involved.  I truly believed I would never get there.

And then, it just happened.  Like most of the best things in life, I wasn't really looking for it, or expecting it at that moment, but there is was.  I was swinging around on the rig on Tuesday morning after a tough WOD, trying for some toes to bar redemption.  And without even really thinking about what I was doing, I hopped up on the bar... and BAM.  Perfect jumping pull up.  Out of nowhere.

For a second, I didn't really believe that it had actually happened.  But then I heard Toni, who was warming up for the 9:30 class, shout from across the box, "WAS THAT A PULL UP I JUST SAW?!"... and I knew I hadn't imagined it.  It had been a jumping pull up... but a pull up none the less.  Chin above bar and all.  I'd done it!!!!

I did a few more, just to make sure it wasn't a fluke.  And sure enough, there it was.  7+ months and a million assisted reps later, my unassisted pull up had made its appearance.  I still couldn't kip or string more than one together, and I still had to jump to get up there.  But it was such an epic leap of progress that I didn't care.  No more bands!  I COULD DO A PULL UP AT LAST!!!!

Big.  HUGE.

I left the box that day feeling beyond excited.  When I returned on Wednesday, I learned quickly that I would have plenty of chance to put my new-found skill into practice.  It was Hero WOD Wednesday.  Today's hero: Bradshaw.

"Bradshaw"
10 rounds for time:
~3 hand stand push ups
~6 dead lift 225/155
~12 pull ups
~24 double unders

First of all, 10 rounds of anything in CrossFit is usually ridiculously brutal.  Secondly, no Tammy to spot me for HSPUs.  Thirdly, while I have a good dead lift and my one-rep max is well over the prescribed 155lbs, I knew that weight was going to be killer by round 6 or so.  Fourthly... that's 120 pull ups.  Fifthly... still don't have double unders, so I would most likely have to do jump tucks.  Calf killer.  This one was bound to be tough.

And, it was.  It took me forever.  For.  Ev.  Er.  But I did all of my HSPUs without a spotter, and while they're not what they need to be to count in competition, they're getting there.  I was able to do all of the dead lifts unbroken, even during rounds 9 and 10 when I was barely breathing.  I even managed a few double unders before giving up and switching to jump tucks for the sake of time.  But, most importantly, I did bandless pull ups.  For the first time ever in a WOD.  They were slow and inefficient and not very pretty, but I was doing them.  And it felt AMAZING.

After Bradshaw, I had a little bit of my confidence back.  I felt ready for the 8pm announcement of 13.5... ready for 13.5 itself.  I felt ready for Fran.

As I continued my day, went to work, and awaited the announcement, I felt weirdly calm.  And even when the WOD was announced, there was no moment of panic.  Maybe because I had pretty much known what was coming, or maybe because, at that point, I was too emotionally drained from 4 weeks of Wednesday night panic attacks to feel much of anything.  But whatever the case, this didn't affect me the way the previous four had:

Chest to bar.  That was the twist on Fran. 

I don't have a chest to bar pull up.  Hell, I hadn't had any pull up until the day before.  Chest to bar simply wasn't going to happen.  And when I saw the announcement, I felt okay with that.  Not defeated, necessarily, but resigned.  I'd known, eventually, the Open would throw a skill at me that I wouldn't be able to handle.  Luck had brought me my toes to bar just in the nick of time, and the magical materialization of those two double unders in 13.3 had been another lucky twist of fate.  But luck won't make my chest hit the bar.  That takes strength, and technique, and I'm not there yet.  Finally, I was going to come across something that I was physically incapable of doing... and I would just have to deal with it.

My initial reaction, when my friend texted me the WOD, was as follows:

And all night Wednesday, I was able to believe it.  I believed that I would be okay with my score of 15.  At least it was a score to submit.  After my 15 thrusters, I would be able to say that I had submitted a numerical score on every single Open WOD.  When I started this whole thing, I never would have thought I'd be able to say that.  In fact, I was pretty convinced that I wouldn't make it much past 13.1.  But I'd made it.  And I would make it through 13.5 to the best of my ability.  And then it would be over, and I'd have my first Open under my belt with five scores and zero DNFs.  I could live with that.

This positive attitude didn't last long, however, before crazy took over.  Thursday morning, I had an awful WOD.  I was tired and sore from Bradshaw, and probably should have taken a rest day.  But instead, I struggled through a beater of a workout consisting of 150 box jumps, 150 sumo dead lift high pulls, and a bunch of wall climbs.  And when I say I struggled, what I mean is that I completely bombed it.  To make matters worse, after the WOD, I decided to try for my C2B pull up... only to find that I couldn't even do a regular pull up.  My pull up was gone.  I don't know where it went... maybe the same place my toes to bar went when they abandoned me in the middle of 13.4.  But whatever the case, it was enormously discouraging.  Crappy morning.  The rest of Thursday didn't go much better... my 12-hour night shift was brutally busy and insanely stressful, and I arrived at the box on Friday morning feeling completely drained.

Again, I should have taken a rest day.  I knew I should have.  But of course, I didn't.  Because I'm me, and I'm an idiot, and I never listen to my body when I should.  So instead of recovering for 13.5 and resting up for another night shift ahead, I faced this beast:

I should have scaled.  I should have gone down on weight knowing that I was facing 13.5 the next day.  I should have done a lot of things differently this week.  But I didn't.  And I knew, by the 18 round, that I couldn't handle that weight on that particular day.  But, because I'm a stubborn asshole, I told myself to suck it up and keep going.  The WOD took me forever, and was horribly painful.  I felt something go wrong in my bad shoulder during the 15 round of split jerks... again, should have stopped but didn't.  By the end, I was not only hurting terribly, but also ridiculously frustrated.  I left the box pissed off at myself, worried about my shoulder, and not at all ready for my final Open WOD.

On top of my crap attitude and uncooperative rotator cuff, I was also contending with a serious disruption in my Open WOD routine.  I had to work Friday night until 7:30am.  So not only would I have to miss my regular 6:00am time slot on Saturday, but I wouldn't be able to work out with my usual group of early morning badasses.  Plus, my new 8:30 time slot meant that I'd have an audience... the Mayhem crowd would be there to watch me fail my C2B attempts.

Nothing about this was ideal for a positive end to my tumultuous Open experience.

With all of this external stuff going on, I was also dealing with an internal battle.  The logical part of me had come to terms with the fact that I wasn't going to get a chest to bar pull up, and that I needed to be okay with that.  But the irrational crazy part of me couldn't help but think that, if I just tried a little harder, got a little better form, wanted it a little more... that maybe, just maybe, I could make it happen.  That I should be able to make it happen.  And that, if it didn't happen, I was a failure.  Part of me knew that this was an unreasonable expectation.  Unfortunately, that's rarely the side of me that wins an argument.  By Friday evening, I had myself pretty much worked into a panic about the stupid chest to bar pull ups.  I knew, if I didn't try, I'd never be able to forgive myself.  But I also knew that, if I tried and failed, I'd be crushed.  Is it better to go in with low expectations and avoid disappointment, or to get my hopes up and risk the aftermath when I can't live up to those hopes?  Different week, same story.  Another poorly timed freak-out over another idiotic internal struggle.  What the hell is wrong with me?

Friday night at work was one of those nights that makes me question my choice of careers.  It was horrible.  High census, high acuity, understaffed, and just plain crazy.  By the time 7:30am rolled around, I was wrecked.  I could barely keep my eyes open, my whole body was sore, my feet hurt from running around like a madwoman all night, and my shoulder was absolutely throbbing.  During the drive to the box, I worked myself into one of the finest Emily-style neurotic freak-outs in the history of existence.  By the time I got to the box, I was entirely convinced that, no matter what I did, thought, or believed going into this WOD, I was setting myself up for failure.  All I'd wanted was to end my Open experience on a positive note... and that just didn't feel possible.  Fran was going to win.  Again.

But then, fate intervened via the magnificent Jeannie.   As I was sitting in my car outside of TPA, trying not to hyperventilate, I got a text message:

"Okay, last pep talk of the Open: You're there.  4 minutes away from saying 'fuck you' to another fear.  This one... devote to you.  4 minutes.  Make them beautiful... to you, to the people watching you.  Take pride in yourself the entire time.  15 beautiful thrusters... then, be really beautiful.  Never give up, knowing it's the process.  It's the try.  See your own beauty that everyone else sees in you while you continue to try.  4 minutes of beauty, positive talk in your head, pride for what you've done... 4 minutes of self-compassion.  Want it.  Want every piece of it."

As I read this message over and over, I had to fight back tears.  (Clearly the Open has turned me into an emotional blubbering mess, because I have cried more in the past 5 weeks than I think I've cried in the past 5 years of my life.)  Suddenly, my "every piece" mantra meant something entirely different.  It didn't mean wanting that C2B pull up so badly that I make myself insane over it, or wanting a score, or wanting to achieve a certain feeling or emotion from my workout.  It meant wanting every piece of the experience... every millisecond of the effort, win or lose, pass or fail, chest to bar or no chest to bar.  Because the true victory is in the effort.  In trying.  In putting yourself out there, believing in yourself, never giving up, never losing hope.  All of the goals and achievements and scores and PRs... they're great.  But that's not what the Open, or CrossFit, or life, is all about.  The real beauty is in the try.  It always has been... I just hadn't been able to realize it until now.  Maybe that's what Jeannie had meant all along when she told me to "want every piece" all those weeks ago.  At the time, I'd used the mantra as exactly what I needed it to be... motivation, a driving force, something to push myself to the next level in 13.1.  But now, five weeks later, what I really needed was perspective.  I needed permission to let myself off the hook a little... to stop beating myself up, to stop feeling like a failure, and to start embracing this whole Open adventure for what it really was.  To see the beauty in the experience... to see the beauty within myself.  And, above all, to recognize that this beauty is not diminished in the least by my inability to do a chest to bar pull up.  Maybe I couldn't do it... maybe I just wasn't there yet.  But I could try.  I could go out fighting.  And there would be beauty in that.

Jeannie saves the day again.  I was ready.  It was time to face 13.5.  Time to man up and Fran up.

I walked into the box, where my friends were fighting through the end of an awesomely brutal-looking Primal Mayhem workout.  I realized, as I changed out of my scrubs and started stretching, that none of them were being judged, or scored, or would leave the box that day basing their self-worth on their morning CrossFit performance.  They were enjoying the process... loving the effort.  And Jeannie was right.  It was beautiful to watch.

Time felt like it was moving in slow motion.  Mayhem ended.  I watched a few friends in the 8:15 time slot take their shot at 13.5.  (Big shout out to Laura Prosser... you made those C2B pull ups your bitch!  Awesome to watch!)  Finally, it was time to load my bar and get ready to start.  In retrospect, the moments leading up to 13.5 felt strikingly similar to those leading up to 13.1: crouched in a corner, trying to gather the insane jumble of thoughts and emotions flying around my brain, grasping desperately to find something to cling to... one thought to grab onto to keep me grounded.

And again, just before the timer sounded, there it was.

Want it.  Want every piece of it.

And so it began.

Thrusters have always been towards the top of my Most Hated CrossFit Movements list.  As recently as Valentine's Day of this year, I was struggling with 65-pound thrusters in my last Franstravaganza.  I had to break them down into sets of five, and even smaller sets towards the end.  But today, even with my throbbing shoulder, the thrusters felt good.  Not easy, but good.  With each one, I felt a little lighter, a little stronger.  A little less scared and a little more badass.  I got through all 15 reps unbroken.  15 beautiful thrusters... the first part of the prophecy had been fulfilled.  Now it was time for the real challenge.  Time for the try.

I chalked up, approached the same bar that had served me my 13.4 T2B catastrophe, and took a moment to pull myself together.  Deep breath... focus.  Go time.  Hit it.

I don't know how long I spent trying for my C2B, or how many attempts I made in that time.  A few times, I felt like I was close.  One time, I'm pretty sure that if I still had my fat girl DD's, it would have counted as a good rep.  But I don't, and it didn't.  But I kept fighting.  I fought until my arms were burning, and then I fought some more.  When I felt myself getting frustrated, as I had in 13.4, I took a step away from the bar, closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and repeated my mantra a few times in my head.  Every piece.  Then I turned back to the bar and kept fighting.  When the buzzer sounded and the clock reached 00:00, I was still on that bar, giving one last fight.

There was a split second, as I dropped off the bar and started to process what had just happened, during which my brain was completely blank.  No reaction whatsoever.  I knew that my next thought would probably determine not only my feelings about this effort in this WOD, but also my feelings about the entire Open experience.  I wanted to choose that thought carefully.

Before I had a chance to decide which way this day, these past 5 weeks, were going to end... my friends, my family, were there to decide for me.  There were hugs and congratulations, and exclamations about how many pull ups I'd done, C2B be damned.  And then there was Tammy.  I held my breath for a second, because Tammy is not a sugar-coater, and I was a little worried that my close-but-no-cigar performance might have disappointed her.  But her reaction surprised me.  She just smiled, gave me a hug, and said, "Way to fight, sister."  And at that moment, I smiled, too.  Because I knew, then, how this was all going to end... how it was always supposed to end.

I'd won.

I hadn't gotten my chest to bar pull up.  It hadn't happened.  I wasn't strong enough.  But what I realized that morning, was that sometimes it takes way more strength, and more courage, to put yourself out there and fight what you know is probably going to be a losing battle, than it takes to touch your chest to a bar.  It's one thing to go into a competition, or anything else in life, knowing that you are able to succeed and are likely to have a good outcome.  But to throw yourself into something like this, knowing full well that your chances of achieving the conventional definition of success are slim to none... to fight like hell anyways, and to keep on fighting long after the battle is already lost... there is a certain beauty in that.  And in being able to finally recognize that beauty, I had found the victory in my defeat.  I'd lost my battle with Fran.  But I won the real war: the war with myself.  The war with the part of me that is constantly putting myself down, questioning whether I'm brave enough or strong enough or good enough, doubting every success and dwelling on every failure.  I was finally able to silence that voice... because I learned something, fighting a losing battle with the bar in 13.5.

Everyone's been telling me this all along, and I've been trying to tell myself for the past five weeks, but I don't think I ever really, truly believed it until now: the victory is in the effort.  The beauty is in the try.  By signing up, by showing up, by having the courage to step up to the bar on that very first Open WOD at 6am with panic in my brain but hope in my heart... by doing this, by participating in the Open at all... I'd already won.  Everything I've accomplished since then has just been icing on the cake.  Through all of the sweat and tears and no-reps, through all of the perceived failures and heartbreaking defeats... I'd been winning all along.  Through every moment.  Through every piece.

Five weeks ago, I had never snatched more than 45 pounds, never cleaned more than 65 pounds, and had never put more than 85 pounds over my head.  65 pound thrusters were a challenge.  I rarely even attempted double unders in my WODs, convinced that I would never figure them out.  I'd never attempted a hand stand push up because I was too afraid to flip myself up on the wall.  I'd never successfully done toes to bar, and I was 100% certain that I was never, ever going to be able to do an unassisted pull up.  I'd been content to modify my WODs, to scale where I needed to, to use my trusty band, to be okay with singles instead of doubles, to go with lighter weights and less complicated movements.  I'd been content to be average, because I told myself that I wasn't capable of being anything more.  I was content to succeed on an easier path, because I was afraid I couldn't handle the disappointment if I failed on a harder one.  I was content to settle.

Five weeks.  Five short weeks, and here we are.  I can snatch twice what I could when this started, and recently got my first 100-pound clean and jerk. Yesterday, I busted out 15 thrusters at 65lbs unbroken without a hitch.  I've added weight to all of my one rep max PRs, and finally broke into triple digits with my overhead squat max.  My double unders are coming... they still suck, but slowly, surely, they are getting there.  I have overcome my fear of handstand push ups, and am well on my way to getting that skill, too.  I can do toes to bar.  And now, finally, I can do an unassisted pull up.  With the exception of a few pre-Open scaled Fridays, I have done every WOD for the past several weeks at the prescribed weight, and sometimes even more than the prescribed weight.  I've stopped modifying, and have adopted the attitude that it's better to be slower and try for the real deal than to modify and have a respectable time.  This week, I said goodbye to my trusty pull up band.  I've been incorporating the 24-inch box into my WODs, just because I can, and because I like the challenge. I've been pushing myself, pushing my limits, testing how far I can go before I fail... because I'm not so afraid to fail anymore.  And there is no better feeling than the moment when you try something that you really, truly don't believe you're capable of doing... and then it happens, just like that, out of nowhere.  I have had so many of those moments in the past 5 weeks.  And with every one of them, I've shed a piece of my old self... the one that was content to settle.  I'm a completely different athlete than I was five weeks ago.

But, more than that, I'm a completely different person.  With every successful rep I completed in the Open, I got a little stronger, a little braver, and a little more confident.  With every failed rep I struggled through, I got a little tougher, a little more resilient, and a little less afraid.  I've learned to redefine success in my own terms, and I'm slowly learning to redefine failure as well.  And even more slowly, I'm learning to accept both with equal grace.  For most of my life, I've been a very closed-off person, because the idea of putting myself out there to be judged by and compared with others was just too much for my fragile self-esteem to handle.  During the Open, for the first time, I made myself completely vulnerable... put my weaknesses on display for anyone to pick apart... went up against the people at my box who I admire most, knowing full well that I can't compare... put everything I have and everything I am into every workout for everyone to see.  And you know what?  I learned that nobody who matters to me is going to judge me or think any less of me for that.  I was so afraid of letting people down... of disappointing my coaches, primarily, but also of bringing down the TPA team's scores and letting down my fellow athletes.  But in the end, no one seems disappointed in me at all, and I'm slowly learning that the only standards I really need to meet, are the ones I set for myself.

I've learned so much about myself over the past five weeks... so much growth, so many breakthroughs.  But the biggest, perhaps, was my 13.5 realization yesterday, and finally (finally) being able to see that beauty and strength and victory have little to do with the final outcome, and everything to do with how we get there.  To understand that my best is good enough, and to really believe that.  Trying, fighting, never quitting... to know that true victory lies in these things, not in scorecards or leaderboards.  To see in myself, at long last, what my friends have seen in me all along.  This has been my biggest gain from the Open. 

Knowing these things has made me feel... free.  I can't think of another word for it.  13.5 has given me this amazing sense of freedom.  Freedom from my own harsh criticism; freedom from worrying about the criticism of others.  Freedom from so many demons I've been fighting for so long.  Freedom to be vulnerable.  Freedom to dream big without letting the fear of failure diminish those dreams.  Freedom to be an awkward penguin, and to be okay with it... because I have faith that one day, my inner badass penguin will come out to play.  Freedom to be myself... to be weird, and crazy, and completely neurotic, because if my TPA family can still want me around after the past 5 weeks, I'm pretty sure they can tolerate anything.  Freedom to believe in "someday"... to know that, just because I didn't get my C2B yesterday, doesn't mean it won't happen.  Freedom to believe in the process.  And, above all, freedom to believe in myself.  To really believe, for the first time, that I am an athlete, and that I belong here, doing exactly what I'm doing.  To believe that I deserve credit for what I've accomplished in the past 5 weeks... and in the past 14 months.  To believe that I'm only going to get better from here.  It may take time, and it will definitely take work.  But today, I truly believe that I control my destiny.  I can take this life, and do whatever I want with it.  And if what I want is to be great, then someday, I will find a way to make that happen.  But, for now, I am what I am.  In my own awkward penguin way, I am strong, and beautiful, and doing my best.  And that is enough.  I am enough.

CrossFit Open 2013:  check.

EPIC.

Last night, we all met at Domenico's to harass Filippo (we miss you buddy... heal fast and get your ass back to the box to burpee with me!) and celebrate the completion of the Open with good company and a few well-deserved cocktails.  It was the perfect ending to an incredible experience.  I was amazed by how many people came out to support us and celebrate with us... and it's always fun to see people outside of the box for a change.  (You'd be amazed how different we all look when we're not wearing workout gear and a thick layer of sweat...)  The coaches surprised us by putting together a little "awards ceremony" for all of the Open athletes, which was hilarious and touching all at the same time.  What award did I receive, you ask?

It. Was. PERFECT.  Not only was it hilariously appropriate, but it also hit home, once again, how much these amazing people not only understand me, but accept me, crazy and all.  I laughed along with everyone else, but oddly found myself fighting back tears (AGAIN... I told you, the Open has turned me into a total girl.  Didn't see that one coming)... for my entire life, my weirdness and obsessive tendencies and general craziness have been something of which I've been endlessly ashamed, and tried to hide.  I always just assumed it would scare people away or make them judge me.  But when you go through something like the Open with the same group of people week after week, you're vulnerable, and there's no hiding who you really are.  When you put yourself out there, you put it all out there.  My crazy came out BIG TIME over the past 5 weeks... there was no hiding it.  And you know what?  Nobody cared.  Nobody looks at me any differently... except, now they know not to move my water bottle or take my rower or make the high knees/butt kick inversion faux pas in my presence.  That's the thing about family... they're a part of you, no matter how weird or crazy they are, and you're all in this thing called life together.  And when I talk about my TPA family, I'm not exaggerating or trying to be cute... these people really have become my family.  My support system.  The people who make me see the good in myself when I have trouble finding it.  It is a truly amazing phenomenon, this thing we do.  I think Matt said it best, as we were finishing our final round of beers and closing out our bar tabs last night:  "Other people don't get it.  They think we just work out together.  But it's so much more than that.  It's this.  I love this shit."

I love this shit, too.  More than I will ever be able to adequately put into words.  (Although you know that won't stop me from trying.)  I love that a sport, a box, a group of people, can change a life so drastically for the absolute better.  CrossFit came into my life at a time when I was feeling a little bit lost, a little bit lonely, and completely unsure of my place in the world.  Now, I've found it.  I've found where I belong... and it's at the box, with my family.  So I can say, without reservation, that I absolutely, positively, whole-heartedly love this shit.

When I found TPA in August, everything changed for me.  It was a fresh start... a new beginning.  I felt, for the first time, that perhaps I could be the person I'd always wanted to be but was never sure I was capable of becoming.  I learned that I was capable of being, and doing, so much more than I ever thought possible.  In a lot of ways, it feels like my life began the day I walked through those garage doors for the first time.  I don't know how many people are lucky enough to get that fresh start, that second chance to make their life what they want it to be.  It's a powerful experience.

I got to have that experience twice.

Yesterday was another game changer.  This whole Open experience, actually, has been decisively life-altering in the best possible way.  I already knew that I was capable of so much more than I ever thought possible.  Today, everything seems possible.  Anything.  All of it.  The big dreams, the crazy goals, the things you wish for but never say out loud because they seem so impossible.  Guess what, people?  There is no impossible.  It's all within our grasp, if we're willing to man up, reach out, and grab it.  We can be the people we've always wanted to be.  We can be the absolute best versions of ourselves.  We can have those silent wishes if we're willing to make them come true, with time and effort and passion. 

If we want it... want every piece of it.

I've used this phrase so much that I'm seriously considering having it tattooed on my body somewhere. But I think I am only just now really understanding it.  It's about wanting every piece... not just the victories and the PRs and the epic wins.  Because there will be bad pieces, too.  Pain and disappointment and frustration and failure.  I think these things are an inevitable part of anything worth fighting for.  You have to want those pieces, too.  Because in the end, they make us stronger.  Braver.  Better.  They make us who we are, and they make us appreciate the good pieces even more.  So when we finally reach out and find that epic win in our hands, we can truly appreciate it, and what it took to get there.  Every piece of it.

I wouldn't change a second of the 2013 CrossFit Open.  I wouldn't un-cry one tear or change a single no-rep.  I wouldn't trade in my panic before 13.1, or the crushing disappointment after 13.2.  I wouldn't have ditched my bronchitis for 13.3, wouldn't have traded in a single one of those painful, hard-fought wall balls.  I wouldn't give back my meltdown or the subsequent crappy score on 13.4, and I wouldn't ask for a C2B pull up in 13.5.  Because without those things, those pieces, I wouldn't have had the opportunity to overcome them.  And that is where true growth lies... in overcoming the bad shit so that you can see the good shit for what it really is.  That is how we make our silent wishes come true, one piece at a time.

I'm sad that the Open is over.  Crazy, but true.  I'm going to miss it.  I think I'll actually be kind of bummed to have an anxiety-free Wednesday night for the first time since February.  I'll miss my Friday-night freak-outs, my early mornings at the box, my Saturday mornings spent with some of my favorite people as we threw ourselves into the most brutal of workouts with everything we had.  It was emotional, and draining, and hard.  So, so hard.  But I loved it.  And I can't wait to do it again next year.

But for now, there are plenty of other things on the horizon to induce freak-outs and make me question my sanity.  This will be a quiet week, probably with a few rest days to try to get my shoulder back in functioning order.  I have a low-key 5K on Saturday, but otherwise, this should be a relatively slow week.  Then the madness begins.  Over the next few months, I will be facing the 5K Gone Bad at TPA, my first half marathon, and the Patriot Games, my first time competing outside of my own box.  Those last two things terrify me... but I'm also excited for them.  (Men of TPA: still need one more gentleman for our Patriot Games team.  I know there are plenty of you not signed up... time to man up, Fran up, and make it happen.  You know you want to.)  The next few months are going to be a wild ride, but I think I'm ready to take it on.  This awkward penguin has some serious work to do, and I can't wait to get started.  I love the challenge.  Every piece of it.

Game face?  See you soon, Fran. XOXO.

*A few "thank you"s are in order.  To everyone who made this epic experience possible... thank you.  To everyone who came to the box at weird hours on a Saturday morning to cheer us on for the past 5 weeks... thank you.  To everyone who encouraged me, supported me, and/or distracted me with cocktails/movie nights/BBC YouTube videos of screaming groundhogs... thank you.  To my fellow Open athletes... you are amazing and inspiring, and it was an honor to compete alongside you.  Thank you.  Especially my early morning WODers Toni, Kate, Pam, Jess, and Chris.  You made this experience a good one, no matter how determined my crazy brain was to make it bad.  To my friends Lynn and Alexis... thank you for supporting me, giving me pep talks, and forgiving my ridiculous obsessiveness for the past 5 weeks.  To my AMAZING coaches... thank you, thank you, thank you.  Thank you for talking me into doing this, for refusing to let me give up no matter how much I wanted to, for telling me to focus, for lending me your socks, for wearing a brown wig to calm my craziness, for being my voices of reason, for forcing me to see the victories within my failures, and for everything you do for us all every day... you are beyond amazing, and we're all blessed to have you in our lives.  To my whole TPA family... thank you for being you, and for being there.  And to Jeannie... thank you for EVERYTHING; for taking pity on me and offering words of wisdom on handling this experience, which has since evolved into an incredible friendship and the best text message therapy sessions that money can't buy.  Thank you for understanding my crazy brain (somebody has to, and God knows I haven't figured it out yet), for always knowing the right thing to say to talk me out of my head, for telling me to want every piece... and for helping me to finally understand what that actually means.  You are the biggest badass and quite possibly the kindest person I've ever met, and I couldn't have done this without you.  So... thanks. :) *

Awkward penguin.

Well, I managed to put off writing my 13.4 post all day yesterday.  Instead, I opted to spend my Easter Sunday drinking wine by myself and watching Sports Center, because that's my favorite coping/pouting mechanism when life kicks me in the ass.  Sometimes, I just need a little time to wallow in a sea of self-pity before carrying on with my life.  And yesterday, self-pity just to happened to taste a lot like Hill Family Estate's 2010 Merlot.  Don't judge me.

Of the four Open WODs I've completed so far, 13.4 was easily the most emotional yet... and if you've been reading my last few posts, you'll know that that is saying something.  I've been an emotional basketcase from Wednesday through Sunday of the past four weeks, but somehow, this one topped them all, and I'm still trying to sort out how I feel about the experience.  I figured today was as good a time as any to put a cap on my pouting time, get back to work, and face this beast head on.  So... here you go.  Disclaimer: there is lots of crazy in the upcoming paragraphs.

But before we get into the ugly details of 13.4, I'd like to take a minute to talk about... penguins.  Yep, penguins.  Not the hockey team (although we will discuss them at some point, because they are kicking ass and bringing immense amounts of joy to my life at the moment)... the flightless bird that lives in cold climates and has been immortalized by countless animated children's movies.  Yep, I want to talk about penguins.

Friday was a beautiful day, and, feeling invigorated by a good workout that morning, I decided to enjoy the weather and spend the afternoon at the zoo with a friend and her 6-year-old daughter.  Because I am fairly certain that I am a 6-year-old child myself most days, I love the zoo.  I love the big cats, I love the elephants, I love the baby rhino, I love the monkeys... and I love the penguins.  Always have.  So, as with every trip to the zoo, I spent a good chunk of time at the penguin exhibit in the aquarium.

When it comes to penguin exhibits (and I have been to many throughout the country... you might call me a penguin connoisseur) there are two kinds of penguins that I always notice.  First, there are the big guys: the King penguin, and the Emperor penguin.  People recognize these immediately:

They are beautiful.  Tall, regal, and elegant.  They are appropriately named, as everything about them looks royal.  On land, they move slowly and deliberately, but with a certain grace that is unmistakable.  Under water, they are effortless and amazing to watch.  They are pretty magnificent creatures.

Aren't they majestic?  There's a reason that the entertainment industry has capitalized on these big, beautiful birds... they are just plain awesome.  Awesome to look at, awesome to see in action... just really cool animals.

And then...

...then there's this guy.

This is the Macaroni penguin.  They are right alongside the King penguins at the Pittsburgh exhibit, and that fact alone exacerbates one of the most obvious facts about this species:  they are ridiculous.  They look ridiculous.  They make ridiculous noises.  They waddle in a ridiculous fashion.  Everything about them, from their short stature and fat bellies, to their absurd yellow penguin 'fro, to the questionable placement of their beady little eyeballs in relation to their abnormally ugly beaks... everything about this poor little guy is just laughable. 

Macaroni penguins are not graceful, like their more statuesque relatives.  Instead, they are silly looking and clumsy and completely awkward.  I often wonder if they really serve any purpose in the universe other than to make people laugh and to make their bigger, more handsome, less awkward counterparts feel better about themselves.

On this particular zoo visit, I watched a little Macaroni penguin battle two King penguins for a spot on a rock that, for reasons unknown to me, must have had some sort of magical penguin appeal, because this little guy really wanted to be on that particular rock.  He kept climbing up and trying to push the two bigger penguins off.  The big penguins didn't even move... they just sat there, looking like badass statues.  No matter how many times the little penguin pushed and shoved the big guys, they didn't budge.  He was trying to claim his rock when I got there, and still fighting for it 10 minutes later when I left, to no avail.

As I continued through the aquarium to see all the other weird-looking marine life, I couldn't stop thinking about that poor silly-looking penguin who would probably never get a spot on that damn rock.  I felt kind of bad for him, in all of his ridiculousness.  And then I realized why... the penguins kind of reminded me of CrossFit.  There are people who do these impossibly hard movements every day, making them look graceful and impressive and absolutely effortless.  People who can string together a million beautiful kipping pull ups, or who can clean and jerk ridiculous amounts of weight with perfect form, every time.  People who can make even the stupidest-looking things (ahem... burpees?) appear smooth and fluid and beautiful.  These people aren't just good at CrossFit, but they look good doing it.  They make insanely hard workouts look easy.  They make a loaded bar look weightless. They leap small buildings (or tall boxes, at least) in a single bound.  They are badasses, and they look the part.

I, my friends, am not that person.

I'm the little awkward penguin with the stubby legs and the bad 'do.  I'm built funny.  I walk funny.  I look funny.  I say the occasional funny thing.  For the most part, I'm pretty sure I've just been placed on this planet for comic relief.  And while there are (THANKFULLY) no mirrors at the box, I can assure you that, when I'm doing a WOD, there is nothing fluid or graceful or effortless-looking about it.  I flail.  I roll around on the floor.  I fall off of things.  My form is, as a general rule, atrocious.  It is a rare occasion, on any given lift or movement, that all four of my limbs are where they're supposed to be.  I make ridiculous faces.  I groan and swear a lot.  At the end of my workout, I can inevitably be found sprawled out on the ground, covered in sweat and chalk and mat particles, cursing the whiteboard and trying not to die.

Some people make CrossFit look good.  I am not one of them.

Throughout the Open, I've kind of felt like the awkward penguin, fighting fruitlessly against the big guys for my spot on the good rock.  And no matter how hard I try, or how much progress I make, it's never quite enough to get me there.  When you're surrounded by awesome, beautiful badasses, and you're the awkward, flailing, ridiculous-looking odd man out, how is anyone ever going to take you seriously?  Hell, most days, I can't even take myself seriously.  Once, just once, I'd like to be able to be the badass penguin... to stand up after a brutal workout knowing, without a doubt, that I absolutely kicked its ass.  That I rocked that WOD's world.  Just once, I want people watching me to think to themselves, "Damn, Emily looks awesome today."  Just once, I want to proudly stake my claim on the good rock, showing myself and the world that I am awesome and badass and capable of getting it right.

For most of last week, I felt like I was getting there.  After the previous week's epiphany, I was feeling great, loving my workouts, and really pushing myself to and past my limits.  Monday was my back squat PR, my first meeting with Mary, and a handstand push up breakthrough.  Tuesday's WOD had heavy clean & presses.  Last time these were in a WOD, less than a month ago, I had been struggling to get 75 pounds over my head for even a few reps.  However, knowing that heavy cleans would inevitably be showing up at some point in the Open, I decided to push my limits and see what kind of weight I could manage.  I was thrilled to learn that I was now capable of a 100-pound clean and press.  BOOM!  Up 25 pounds in less than a month on my nemesis lift?  Pretty badass.  Wednesday, I got a new snatch PR, and got in a solid WOD with lots of kettle bells.  I felt good.  Great, in fact.  I was ready for whatever 13.4 had in store for me.

When the WOD was announced at 8pm Wednesday evening, this is what I found:

Ooooh dear... there they were.  The heavy cleans.  And TOES TO BAR.  Which, PS, I didn't have.  Not even close.  Balls.

A week before, I would have been freaking out, knowing full well that my score would be a zero.  Prior to this week, I had never cleaned more than 75 pounds in my life.  But, oddly enough, I didn't panic.  I knew, after Tuesday, that I had a 95 pound clean & jerk.  And T2B had been on my "to do" list for months... I just hadn't given it due time or effort yet.  No time like the present, right?

I made it through Wednesday night's work shift in an almost eerie state of calm.  When I arrived at the box on Thursday morning, I was ready to do work.  After an absolutely brutal 6-round body weight marathon WOD (for a total of 144 air squats, 144 push ups, 144 walking lunges, and 144 box jumps... can you say LEG KILLER?!), I was completely gassed, but knew that I needed to put in some time on my toes to bar.  So, after a few minutes of recovering by flailing around on the mats awkward-penguin-style, I chalked up, took a deep breath, and squared off underneath the bar.  Time to see what you've got, I told myself.

At first, I didn't have it, or anything even remotely resembling it.  But I kept trying.  Jeannie had given me some pointers that morning, and I kept those in my mind as I tried to find a rhythm and get my swing just right.  And then, out of nowhere, I got one.  Just like that!  I was so shocked that I almost fell off the bar (speaking of awkward penguin moves)... I'd finally done a T2B!  VICTORY!!!!

By the time I left the box that day, I had done 5 successful toes to bar.  I couldn't string them together, and for every good one, there were several failed attempts.  But still... that was 5 more than I'd ever done in my life, and I was damn happy about it.  So happy, in fact, that I was feeling kind of awesome about 13.4.  It was the scariest Open WOD yet... two skills that I hadn't had a week ago.  But I had them now, against all odds, and I knew that, no matter what score I put up on Saturday, it would be an epic win.  I'd pushed myself, pushed my limits, and now was reaping the benefits.  This is what the Open is all about.  13.4 would not be my first "zero WOD" after all... and that, in itself, was a huge victory.  I was on cloud nine all day.

On Friday, I decided to try doing a scaled WOD instead of taking the day off, for the sake of my sanity.  If there's anything I've learned from the Open so far, it's that down time = panic time.  So I went to the box at my usual hour, and did a modified WOD with light weight to save my strength for 13.4 the following morning.  It felt good to move, and I was able to successfully complete several reps of solid toes to bar.  Not consistent, but as close as I was going to get with two days of practice.  I was as ready as I could possibly get, mentally and physically.

The rest of the day went unexpectedly smoothly.  Went to the zoo to hang out with the penguins, took my dogs for a little jog in the sunshine, went to happy hour yoga at Salt with the lovely Jenn... it was a good day.  Even that evening, when relaxing at home, I felt calm.  My weekly panic attack didn't hit until around 9:30, when I was getting ready for bed.  I texted Jeannie, who has quickly become my go-to friend for any and all Crossfit related freak-outs, and told her my meltdown of the week had finally caught up with me.  Her response?  "Tell it to fuck off."  It was exactly what I needed... a good laugh.  I followed her advice, told my brain to quiet down, and was able to get a good night's sleep.  Crisis averted.

I woke up Saturday morning at 4am filled with equal parts anxiety and excitement.  The time had come... this was my true test, even moreso than all of the others.  And it scared the shit out of me.  But I wanted this one.  Every piece of it.  And as I arrived at the box and started my warm-up, I still had the familiar urge to puke everywhere... but I had never felt more ready for an Open WOD.  I wanted a chance to show myself that I could be the badass penguin, just this once.

My bar was loaded, my chalk bucket at the ready.  All I needed was my judge and for the timer to start.  As I went through my pre-Open-WOD mantra (every piece, every time... want it...), I looked up to see Tricia approaching to do her judging duties, and I almost died laughing.  She was wearing Tammy's trademark Lulu jacket and a brown Tammy-esque ponytail wig.  Evidently my wonderful, amazing coaches had gotten the memo about how nervous I was to do the WOD without Tammy, and had conspired to channel the essence of Tammy all the way from Mexico to help me get through 13.4.  I couldn't do anything but laugh... but inside, I was so incredibly touched that I almost cried.  Much like the borrowed BADASS socks from 13.2, this small and seemingly silly gesture was evidence of what huge hearts our coaches have, and how much they care about the athletes at TPA.  For once in my life, everyone was willing to jump aboard my crazy train and ride it with me for a few stops.  It was perfect.  Now I was ready for 13.4!

As the ten-second timer began, there were no extraneous thoughts or distractions.  I was focused, eyes on the bar, ready to put my new skills to the test.  Go time.

..3... 2... 1...  everylittlepiece...

...GO!

I got right on the bar, took a deep breath, and went for the first 95-pound clean.  It felt good.  Another deep breath, then the jerk... and before I knew it, the bar was over my head, locked out just like it should be.  It felt awesome.  I barely even struggled with it.  My heart instantly felt a little lighter once that first rep was out of the way.  Knowing that I'd waste too much energy trying to do the reps unbroken at this weight, I dropped the bar, set up quickly, and banged out the next rep.  And then the next.  Already, my score was 3 reps higher than I'd have been able to score a week ago.  But I wasn't ready to go there just yet... I had work to do.  The hard part was still to come.

I hustled to the rig, gathered my thoughts, chalked my hands, and grabbed on to the bar... here goes nothing.  After a few fruitless attempts, I found my swing, went for it, and BOOM... toes to bar.  Then another.  Then another. 

I was ecstatic as I dropped to the ground and hurried back to my loaded bar.  My heart was soaring.  I could do this.  I was doing this.  And it felt incredible!  My friends were cheering, the adrenaline was through the roof... 95 pounds felt even lighter on the second round.  I took my time a little bit, making sure to avoid no-reps and concentrating on nailing my form.  My clean and jerks had never felt this good.  I don't know if they looked as good as they felt, but they felt nearly flawless.  Each time I punched that bar over my head, I got even more excited.  And although I refused to glance at the clock or to peek and see how Chris was doing on the opposite side of the box, I allowed myself a split second of distraction, as I finished my set of six and threw the bar triumphantly to the ground... I smiled a huge smile, and realized that this is what it must feel like to be the badass penguin.  I'd found my spot on the good rock.  This was it.  This was my moment!

And then... it wasn't.

I felt confident as I started on my set of six toes to bar. Surely if I could do three with ease, I could manage six.  I couldn't wait to get through them and get back to lifting... to see how many rounds of this beast I could make it through.  I nailed the first two toes to bar, struggled a little, and found the third.  Then I had a few failed attempts, and got a little rattled.  Managed to squeak out a questionable fourth rep, and then followed it up with a bunch of misses.  And then a bunch more.  And then the WOD completely fell apart at the seams. 

It was as though I had suddenly lost a skill that I'd had ten seconds ago.  I didn't feel overly tired or sore, so I knew it wasn't a physical problem.  I just couldn't find that swing, the timing, the rhythm.  I kept fighting for it, but the more I fought, the more frustrated I became.  I kept telling myself... two more reps.  Get two more stupid reps and get off of this bar so you can go back to lifting heavy shit.  You like heavy shit.  Just get these two freaking reps.  JUST DO IT.  FUCKSHITBALLS WHY AREN'T YOU DOING IT?!?!

I don't know how much time I spent flailing around on that bar like the most awkward of all awkward penguins ever to waddle the planet.  I tried to focus, to get my head back where it needed to be so I could finish this set and get on with it... but panic had crept up on me and was now taking up residence in my mind.  I can tell you the exact moment that it was over: when I finally let myself look at the clock, saw 27 seconds left, and lost all sense of logic or reason.  My brain went completely blank, and then panic totally took over.  At that moment, I might as well have just jumped down and called it a day, because once I get to that point, there's no coming back.  I continued to fight for those 27 seconds, and was still on the bar when the timer went off... but to no avail.  I hadn't gotten through my second round of toes to bar.  I hadn't gotten to lift anymore heavy shit.  I had fallen off of my rock.  Wait, no... it was worse than that.  I dove off my rock, head first, into a dark precipice of craptacular shame.  I'd let my brain get the best of me, and it had brought out the worst in me.  I had panicked, and because of my inability to control my emotions, I hadn't lived up to my potential.  I'd lost.  It was over, and I was back to being the ridiculous comic relief penguin.

13.4 score: 16 reps.

I don't know how it is humanly possible to go from unbelievable elation to crushing disappointment and defeat within the span of a 7-minute WOD, but the emotional 180 took more out of me than the WOD itself did.  I felt like the whole world was crashing down around me. Dramatic?  Maybe a bit.  But if you've ever experienced the best feeling EVER, and then had it suddenly yanked out from under you, it's kind of a dramatic moment.  Biggest let-down in history.  For a minute, I couldn't look at anyone.  I stood there, staring at the wall, trying to wrap my head around what had just happened.  When I turned around, my face must have told Tricia that I was upset with my performance, because she kindly skipped the false congratulations and went straight for the consolation.  I tried to take in her words, and Julie's, and everyone else's... "You just learned how to do toes to bar!"... "A month ago, you couldn't clean that weight at all, and you just did it 9 times beautifully!"... "You couldn't have done this WOD a week ago.  Look how far you've come!"

And they were right, every one of them.  I just couldn't believe it at that moment.  I did my best to smile and be gracious and thank them for their support, but I just needed to get out.  I needed to be alone.  And, while I hate to admit it, I needed to cry.

I barely made it out the door before I burst into tears.  And I'm not talking about dainty little droplets leaking discreetly from my eyelids... this was a sobbing, snot-nosed, somebody-just-ran-over-my puppy weep-fest.  Speaking of awkward penguin... there I was, alone, hiding behind an empty warehouse and bawling like a little bitch, and I wasn't even sure why.  I think it was a combination of frustration, disappointment, the horrible let-down of going from hero to zero in the blink of an eye, and just generally being overwhelmed by the insane range of emotions I felt during the course of those seven minutes.  This felt so much worse than any of my other Open disappointments, even worse than my 13.2 disaster.  It hadn't been a physical fail... my body had done all I could have expected of it, and then some.  I'd gotten some toes to bar, which was a brand spanking new skill for me, and I'd cleaned 95 pounds without difficulty.  If someone had told me, 30 seconds before the WOD started, that I was going to get a score of 16, I would have been totally stoked about it.  I had no number in my head going into this, no expectations to be met.  I'd done everything right leading up to this WOD.  So why did it feel so utterly horrible?

Deep down, I knew why.  It was because I'd had a chance to do something epic, and I'd dropped the ball.

Going into this WOD, I wasn't sure how the weight would feel, how my T2B would work out, whether I'd get out of single digits... whether I'd even have a score to submit.  But once I got started, and everything felt amazing, I wanted more.  I wanted to keep going, to keep succeeding, to keep having the badass penguin feeling.  And I honestly think I could have.  But when I hit a rough patch and stumbled, instead of getting my shit together and pushing forward, I lost focus, and then lost control of my emotions.  When the moment came to man up or give up, I panicked.  And for me, that's about the same as giving up.  When given the opportunity to finally overcome my crazy brain and do something awesome, I failed.  For once, I wasn't upset about the score... I was upset about how I'd gotten it.  Physically, 13.4 was a huge win, and I'd exceeded all of my expectations.  But mentally and emotionally, I'd let myself down.

After I was all cried out, I pulled myself together as much as I could, and made myself go back inside.  Maybe I couldn't be the badass, regal, graceful penguin today... but perhaps there was still some grace to be found.  There was grace in getting over myself, going back into the box, and cheering on my friends the way they'd cheered for me, no matter how utterly cheerless I was actually feeling.  I needed to at least do that.

And I'm so glad I did, because I got to see something truly and completely badass: my friend Pam got her first ever 95lb clean and jerk during 13.4.  In fact, she didn't just get one... she got 9!  It was amazing and very emotional to watch, and I'm so glad I didn't miss it because I was too busy pouting in a dark corner.  She cried after her WOD, too... but hers were happy tears.  And very well-deserved ones.  Pam is definitely a badass penguin, and has officially staked her claim on the good rock for many WODs to come.

SO BADASS!!!

I spent the rest of the morning at the box, cheering on my friends as they tackled 13.4 (everyone else killed it, I'm pleased to report) and suffering through the Miracle Mile for Primal Mayhem.  But nothing could quite shake the feelings of failure and disappointment that had set up shop inside my head.

As much as I wanted to go home and sulk in the privacy of my bedroom, my CrossFitting adventures for the day had just begun.  Several months ago, I had been invited by a friend to attend a lifting clinic with Daniel Bell, an awesome Olympic lifting coach.  I had eagerly accepted, knowing that my technique is still laughably bad on several of my lifts.  So instead of going home to pout, I headed from the box to another box: Laura, an amazing CrossFitter and fellow bridesmaid in Layne's wedding, has created PRossFit in her garage, and it is pretty much the coolest thing I have ever seen.  I am so thankful that she invited me to be a part of this experience... not only do I need all the help I can get, but a day of learning, lifting, and good friends was a perfect distraction from the dark places in which my brain was trying to hide.  Laura, Layne, Jeannie, Julie, and myself (along with another woman who I'd never met but who impressed the hell out of me with her ridiculous strength) spent 4 hours being coached, working on technique, laughing about inappropriate snatch-related comments, and learning way more than one would think possible in such a short time span.  I had attended another one of Mr. Bell's clinics back in September, a mere week after my Elements graduation, but it had been a much bigger group, and since I'd gone in knowing nothing at all about Olympic lifts, it was all a little overwhelming.  This time, I had a (somewhat) broader knowledge base going in, and the small group allowed for a lot of personal attention for everyone.  Not only did I learn a lot from working with Dan, but also from watching some of my favorite people do some flawless and really big lifts.  (My friends are definitely badass penguins.)  And while I was intimidated by the prospect of being watched and judged by some of the most awesome CrossFitting ladies I know, I should have known better than to assume that there would be judgement.  Everyone was helpful and encouraging, and despite my downtrodden mood, I found myself enjoying the clinic immensely.  I feel like I made a lot of progress.  I also feel like it made me love my friends more than ever, because they put up with my obnoxious poutiness all day without kicking me in the ass, which is what I probably deserved.

I worked a 12-hour shift that night, during which we were too busy for me to really think much about the events of the day.  When I came home yesterday morning, I went straight back into pout mode.  (I usually put a 24-hour cap on my pity parties, but since I lost 12 hours to work, I decided to make an exception in this case.)  Took a nap instead of taking a run, felt so crappy about that when I woke up that I opened a bottle of wine, and you know the rest.  Pout city all evening long. 

Which brings us to today.  I'm not entirely sure where my head is right now.  I know that, eventually, I'll be able to look back at 13.4 and be able to see it for the win that it was.  Thanks to this week, I can now do this:

And this:

And that, my friends, is huge.  It's progress.  It's something I didn't have before, and now I do, because the Open pushed me to work harder and dream bigger.  One of these days, I'll be able to say that, and write it, and fully believe it.  I'm not there yet, but I will be.  For now, all I can really do is learn from my mistake, try to shake it off, and focus on 13.5.

I've learned so much about my mental game, and all of the ways I can improve it.  Now, I have to put it into practice, and that's easier said than done.  Maybe I'm not the kind of person who is always going to be Suzie Sunshine after every WOD... maybe I will always be hard on myself.  Maybe that isn't going to change with time or enlightenment.  And maybe that's okay.  Perhaps it's okay to always want more than you gave... to pout a little... to cry when you need to... to never quite be satisfied, to expect better of yourself, even if better isn't necessarily possible.  Maybe that's what drives people to be great.  Or maybe that's just one of the many things that makes me the awkward penguin instead of the badass one.  Hard to say.  I'll let you know when I figure it out.  In the meantime... I have one more week of the Open to focus on.  And I have a feeling that 13.5 just might be my undoing.  But as always, I will try my best, no matter what it is.  (Pull ups are coming... pull ups are definitely coming.  And guess who still doesn't have one?).  And when this is all over, I will be able to look back on everything I've learned, everything I've gained, and everything I've accomplished as a result of being a part of this thing... and something tells me, when it's all said and done, that the good stuff will be more than enough to outweigh the tears and frustration and failures.  So for now, I'm holding on to that thought.  It's a good one.