When I was in middle school, I played soccer. Not public school soccer, rec league or anything of that nature. No, I was in club soccer. The kind you had to pay to be a part of, and where the uniforms weren’t t-shirt material, but mesh. Looking back, I guess I was a little ungrateful.
While the rest of the team was gearing up for a game, laughing as they ran suicide sprints (yes, that’s really what they’re called), I was fighting the urge to run straight off of the field. I was pretty good at hiding my distaste for playing—when my parents would ask me if I was enjoying it, I said yes. Sure, I loved it. In reality, it was more that I felt I had to do it. To my adolescent mind, the reason for staying in was clear: If I quit, I was disappointing everyone. My coach, my parents, maybe even myself.
Soccer was proving that I could be the type of person who did it all—sports and school. I thought, just maybe, that if I held on long enough, I could convince myself that I really did love it. Other girls did, my siblings did. Everyone I knew loved sports or excelled at them. Why couldn’t I?
So, summer after summer, I found myself driving back to the practice field for try-outs, a soccer ball in my lap and a ball of dread and nerves in my stomach. I hated it. We would line up to run and play 1 vs 1, all to determine if you would be on the superior “A” team or the lesser “B” team. I was on the B team every time.
We were “not as good," so we got the “not as good” things. Our field was swampier and out of the way. We didn’t play as much as the other team, and we didn’t get to work with the head coach. It was a soccer quasi-caste system. Bizarre traditions followed—like a charity or a strange, sweaty Cinderella story—every B team girl was invited to play a game with the A team once a season. I was only chosen once and cried on the sidelines. I felt like a massive disappointment.
I was put down, less than—but I didn’t blame the soccer system. How could I? After all, I wasn’t good at soccer. I dreaded every game. I kept my eye on the clock for the entire half I was in. When I wasn’t on the field, I was stress-eating, and the stress was making me sluggish. It was a cruel, cutting cycle. Eventually, it got to the point that I hated what I was doing, and started looking for an exit.
As I grew into high school, found my window, quitting soccer and picking up swimming. I couldn’t pinpoint why I had resented soccer so much, and found myself chalking it up to the running. Maybe if I hated the field, I could learn to love the water instead. At first, I did enjoy it more, but as time went on, I found myself crying in the locker room before meets. I was back to the same apprehension I remembered from middle school.
As the year progressed, the fear came to a head, building in nervous journal entries and panic attacks before races, in tearful workouts, and in silent car rides home when I was too anxious to even enter the water.
As I sat there, my suit still dry, shaking with anxiety, I thought that I had it figured out. Exercise, I thought bitterly. I’m just not a sports person.
In theory, there is nothing at all wrong with not being “a sports person,” so that’s what I told myself. But I wasn’t just not one for sports, I wasn’t one for physical activity at all. I refrained from running because it made me seize with anxiety. I didn’t exercise because the painful memories of my sports failures came rushing back. In a twisted sort of way, I guess I thought I was sticking it to them (whoever they were.) Oh, so you judge me for my abilities? Well, I don’t have to exercise! I’ll do what I want, not what you want.
Time passed, and although I no longer had to face the searing terror of a swimming starting whistle or a soccer goal, I was beginning to feel the negative effects on my body instead. I was tired all the time, lethargic and depressed. My self-image was the worst it had ever been.
Amid the depression and the refusal to go clothes shopping or swimming, I found myself in the midst of a realization.
Maybe I didn’t hate physical activity. Maybe I hated physical competition.
I still remember the day in early April when I dug my running shoes from the back of my closet and stepped outside. I could hardly believe myself. I was, voluntarily, going on a run. Where was the real me, and what had I done with her?
As soon as my pace sped up, I felt the cold, creeping tendrils of dread spread through my stomach. I could hear my labored breathing in my ears. I was failing! I’m tired already!
So, I slowed down. Walked for a bit. When I wanted to speed up again, I would. Suddenly, as if in a moment, I realized no one was telling me to go faster, harder. No coach was standing over my shoulder, judging my A-team potential. It was just me, and I was in control. I could go as slow and steady as I wanted to.
Over the coming months, I exercised more, and as I did so, it became easier for me. I felt more comfortable, but, more importantly, I felt more alive.
I wish I could say I became a marathon-running, super amazing athlete, but I never did. I’m not a great runner, even after all the practice, and I still hate wind sprints. The difference is, though, I now know that I don’t need to be.
It doesn’t matter if you’re a “sports person” or not. It doesn’t matter if you’re in shape, overweight, or anywhere in between. Personal exercise isn’t a competition. It doesn’t matter how fast or slow you go, as long as you’re challenging yourself. You can set your own pace. There aren’t any A and B teams to make it onto, and nothing to dread, only something to anticipate—a healthier you.
Every time I put on my running shoes and step outside or into the gym, I’m not going for a trophy or a tryout. I’m going because I can and, strange as it would sound to middle-school me, I want to.
