You Get Back Up

State gymnastics meet 2015.

A year's worth of practice culminates.

Sparkles on leo. 

Hair in bun.

Here we go.  

The first rotation begins, and our nine-year-old pixie looks sharp on her floor routine.  The score comes up: her PR for the year.  We see her quietly beam.

The second rotation begins, and she launches herself down the blue runway, onto the springboard and over the red vault.  Looks good (to our eyes).  The second vault looks a bit stronger and lands

 farther on the pad below.  Just a small step, and she presents to the judges.  The score comes up: another PR.  All is going well.

But all can change so quickly.

The third rotation begins, and she warms up on the uneven bars with her team.  She looks confident.  Excited.  Determined.  She's practiced this routine thousands of times. They raise the green flag.  She presents. 

Looks at the bar.  Completes her first kip better than she ever has.  Squat-on looks great.  Great leap to the high bar. 

And.Then.Her.Hands.Slip.

I see the momentary panic of "this has never happened before" look, she regroups in less than a millisecond, and somehow finishes her routine.  But she misses her second kip entirely.  A full 1.2 deduction.  Ouch.  She knows. She presents to the judges on her dismount, runs to her coaches, and the dam swells behind her eyes.  Her coaches give her encouragement and the hug that she so desperately needs (and I wish I could jump over the barriers and give one to her!).  One coach walks with her to get water and away from it all for a moment.  Breathe.  Regroup.  

She can't pack up her bags.  She can't quit.  She can't.  She's part of the team.  She knows she has to finish.  Plus, when you fall, you get back up.  Every time.  Every.Single.Time.

And.She.Still.Has.Beam.

Matt and I look at each other and our hearts sink for her.  We really don't care what the final results are as long as she tries her best and never gives up.  That's what we always tell her.  We absolutely mean it.  We put the pen and score sheet down.  That doesn't matter.  At all.  We didn't want to do math anyways on a Sunday!

I turn to Matt: "I guess we'll soon find out what she's made of."  I already know.  I know this girl is disciplined, determined, and never gives up.  But I also know up until this point she's never had to face true adversity like this in a meet setting. 

The final rotation: four inch wide piece of wood.  My stomach is in knots.  Final words from her

coach (and we all need coaches in our lives to give us direction and who know the "beam" a little better than we do). Her turn starts.  Judges in blue blazers with white shirts staring with pen in hand, ready to tally deductions for any bobble.  She presents and is on her way.  Steady.  Sure.  Clean.  Last handstand hold.  Dismount.  Finished.  I exhale for the first time in 65 seconds.

I'm so proud of her, and I realize that this day she is my teacher.  My baby just exemplified a lesson that many adults have a hard time swallowing.

That's why...it is so much sweeter and means so much more when the gold medal is placed around her neck. Balance Beam State Champion.  Amazing.

If my nine-year-old-four-foot-and-change-daughter can learn this life skill at this moment, she will be better off.  Shouldn't we all learn this?  Life doesn't always go your way.  I'm convinced it's what you do in the moments when it doesn't go your way that define you more than the moments that do go your way. Today was bigger than a gym meet...a life lesson for my heart.