Story by Hannah Zimmer
Photo by Will Kanellos
Flying is exhilarating. Hands gripping the uneven bar, every muscle is flexed, each limb extended. My head is spinning, yet through the chaos I remain in the moment. As my hands release, I spin through the air anticipating the moment when both feet hit the mat and my rigid body hits a strong-stuck landing.
I had been practicing for this moment nearly 18 hours a week, yet as the mat rushed closer, I knew something was wrong. Suddenly, I had no control. I had missed the landing. Emptiness filled my heart as shocks jolted from head to toe. Every muscle contracting, my limbs began to curl towards my body. In vain, I searched for any possible distraction to mask the pain. The sound of bones cracking echoed against the gymnasium walls as the fall replayed in my mind. Only one thought rushed through my head: “I can’t do this anymore.”
I entered the competitive world of gymnastics when I was five years old. From that point on, I knew I loved movement; I loved to live inside my body. Striving for perfection, I spent nine years defined by my score on the beam. But by the age of 14, the pressure to win eventually replaced my love of the sport.
Falling off the bar is not what made me quit gymnastics. Broken bones are nothing compared to a broken spirit. Whether it was a fall off the bars, a wobble on the beam, or a misstep on the landing, deductions were everywhere. The nature of the sport forced me to constantly criticize myself. The judges didn’t care whether I was recovering from an injury or that even the simplest routine sent shocks through my body. They were there for only one reason: to determine who the best gymnast was. The judges decided whether I would be walking out of a competition with medals around my neck, silently announcing to the world, “I’m a winner!”
Although I understood that was their role, I still found myself wishing the judges would see deeper into me. I didn’t want one fall from the beam to determine my worth. I feared breaking bones not because they hurt, but because an injury would hurt my chances of reaching my goal, which in the world of gymnastics, was winning. I wanted to be the best, but after years of investing time into something that diminished my spirit, I realized I was no longer competing for the reasons I had started gymnastics in the first place. So instead of just longing to get out of a leotard to see if I could excel at something else, I finally did it. I quit gymnastics.
Although I left the sport, my need for movement remained. Yoga studios were popping up around my neighborhood; intrigued, I grabbed a flier for a free trial. After only one class, I knew I had found a replacement for gymnastics. Much like gymnastics, yoga allowed my body to shift through positions and angles to produce something uncommonly beautiful. Although I wasn’t spinning through the air, stretching made me feel alive again.
I found I could use the balance and strength I had honed in gymnastics and apply it in an activity centered on breathing and fluid body movement. Yoga was so simple compared to gymnastics. I loved that there was no pressure to win. No excessive training. It offered more than just a form of exercise and movement. Without competition, no one is “good” or “bad” at something—and no one is the same. As I took my place in the yoga studio that first week, I watched others moving through poses, challenging their bodies to extend and support their weight. But I had learned not to compare myself with others, to challenge myself to improve, and to cherish something that I loved the most about life: the ability to move.
While I wouldn’t say that yoga changed me, I can say that it replenished my spirit. It revealed the best part in me: I could be satisfied with myself in a way that I could never be in a competitive environment. Whether stretching in a quiet backyard or moving through poses in yoga class, freedom from competition allowed me to live inside my body both physically and mentally. When I stopped competing, I was finally able to be comfortable in my own skin rather than striving to be better than someone else.
Dedicating such a large portion of my life to gymnastics made me lose track of what was truly important to me: my love of movement, not of winning. After leaving gymnastics, I understood that my score in a meet only defined my ability as a gymnast, and that I have more to offer than a perfect dismount.