August 2024

The Olympics Primetime coverage has been a nightly ritual in our house these past few weeks—the Women’s 1500m Freestyle (go, Katie Ledecky!), the Men’s pommel horse routines (go, Stephen Nedoroscik!), and of course, Women’s Gymnastics (go, Simone Biles and Suni Lee!).

All of it is impressive—the vault, the floor routines, the high bars—but the balance beam routine takes me right back to grade-school gymnastics classes…

SCENE: World of Gymnastics, Thursday afternoon class, early 1990s

I'm wearing a light pink leotard with silver polka dots. I stare down at my bare feet on the blue mat, then peer around the shoulders of my classmates ahead of me in line to see a camel-brown balance beam that's taller than I am.

Today, we're doing cartwheels on the balance beam.

I watch my classmates climb on top of the beam (with a leg-up from one of the coaches), hold their arms out wide to steady themselves, then attempt a cartwheel. Some are successful, landing with both feet on the beam, one in front of the other, before dismounting. That's the goal, at least.

In my 7-year-old memory, I don’t remember preparing for this moment. I don’t remember practicing on a line on the floor or a low beam. It felt like we went straight from free-wheeling cartwheels on the large, open gymnasium floor to perfectly straight cartwheels atop a 5’ balance beam.

Now, it's my turn.

I'm very aware of how high off the ground I am. Even walking a straight line across the top of the beam would be a challenge, given how wobbly I feel.

(Maybe this is a good time to tell you that I wasn't the most athletically inclined or coordinated child. Or adult, for that matter. Ask Steve how many times a week I walk into a doorframe or trip over my own feet.)

I put my arms out to steady myself and fix my gaze on the beam in front of me. I take a deep breath, put my hands down on the beam, and immediately cartwheel off onto the mat (half cartwheel, half jump).

I don't remember trying again (alas, the beginning and end of my gymnastics career 🤸‍♀️).

^^ And that's exactly my point.

So often, when we try something new and intimidating—starting a new job or doing something outside our comfort zone—and don't get the results we're hoping for at first, we run in the other direction.

“I tried and look what happened?”
“I'm just not cut out for this.”
“I'm never doing that again.”

But if there's one big takeaway we can learn from this year's Olympic Games it's this:

It's not your record that matters; it's your resiliency.

Everyone falls. Everyone fails.

Simone Biles quit the 2020 Olympics partway through due to mental health challenges. She came back this year stronger than ever, winning four medals, but still fell off the beam during finals earlier this week.
Stephen Nedoroscik, the glasses-wearing Men's Gymnastics hero, is not new to the sport. He's been competing at a high level for over 20 years. After years of overcoming setbacks and leaning into one area of specialty, he finally made the Olympic Qualifiers in 2020, but slipped and fell and was eliminated immediately. He came back this year (four years later) to win two medals.
Suni Lee was diagnosed with two incurable kidney diseases last year, but defied the odds and made it to Paris to win three medals.

And there are countless others.

Overcoming grief and loss and labels, facing diagnoses and surgeries, dealing with mental health challenges, coming back after injuries.

The story is largely the same:

Here's my challenge to you this month:

Look for opportunities to develop resiliency. When a class or lesson doesn't go as planned, when you experience failure in performance, when you put yourself out there and get overlooked or rejected, remember it's not your record that counts, it's your willingness to get back up and keep going.

Flex that resiliency muscle and know that you're not alone in this. Cheering you on always!