Identity-Shedding Comes Slowly.
I tend to mention that I was once a gymnast. And it's true. I did gymnastics until I broke both my feet. Then, I had to quit. Sounds like such a noble story, no?
But, challenge me to do a handstand right here, and I'll just chuckle. Ask for photos, and I can't provide any. Oh, and splits? Long gone. I never had them "down," actually.
Truth be told, I really wasn't that good. Nor was I honestly that passionate, until I was condemned to "never do gymnastics again" at which point my innate rebellion against medical restrictions prompted an obsession: Rewinding and hyper-analyzing my VHS copies of the '96 Olympics, while wearing casts and sucking Ibuprofen.
Some days, I really miss the sport. But, most days, I just miss the admiration. I understand why people tend to relive/exaggerate their "glory days." I miss my identity as "an athlete." Probably it shouldn't have been my identity so much, but it was. As were many other labels: Student, Musician, Teacher, Editor, Public Speaker. It's weird to give those up!
Metamorphosis is inherently a loss of the old self. I know it’s good to frame those fond memories, and transition to pilates now. But, old identities are heavy and hard to shrug off. New identities take time to graft and grow.
And I comfort myself by remembering that not everything has to change; I will be wearing warmups to pilates class.
Because I still own, like, 50 sets.
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