I’m sitting at my kitchen table in the middle of the day, laptop and a bowl of soup in front of me, but my eyes are locked on the TV. Simone Biles is tumbling across the screen, competing for Team USA in women’s gymnastics, and I’m ugly-crying with a dry cracker hanging out of my open mouth.
There’s a part of the Olympics that’s emotional for all of us—the unifying power of sports, the vicarious glory of national pride, imagining that we know what it must feel like for an athlete to carry the weight of their country on their shoulders and triumph. But for me, with this sport, there’s also knowing what it takes, on a specific and granular level, to live in the body of a gymnast.
Simone Biles got her start in gymnastics when she was 6 years old. Which is late, as she’s often said herself—a lot of girls who transcend to elite gymnastics start in their toddler years. I was 7, but I’d had a head start in ballet, already tuned to the need to control every part of my body, down to the bend of my fingers and toes. The appeal was immediate: mastering a new skill is an uncomplicated way to earn the approval of adults, and a team is a ready-made friend group to lean on through your most awkward years. Many gyms have a bell you can ring when you reach a new milestone—and everyone, even the teenagers on the boys team, will drop what they’re doing to cheer.
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Over the years, I rose from a complete beginner to a level 5 competitor to, finally, a level 7—what was then the first of the “optional” levels, where gymnasts begin to differentiate and get their own routines, rather than the standardized “compulsory” level routines. Level 7 was as far as I got. I usually say I quit because of a physical limitation, but it was equally a mental one. I felt grizzled, worn down, and done. I was 13.
When I left gymnastics behind, I was still a kid. But my history as a gymnast is one of the most indelible things about me—about anyone who has undergone the physical and spiritual commitment of competitive gymnastics. Most of us learn early what it means to retire, to walk away from something that has been your everything and wonder how you’ll fill the hole. And watching this year’s Olympic team—especially Biles, whose setback at the 2020 Olympics in Tokyo was world news—there’s a little part of me that’s cracking open.
When you take on the role of a competitive gymnast, even years before you reach Olympic-caliber levels, you give up so much. You practice for hours after school every day and longer through the summer, replacing school time with gym time. You miss slumber parties and you stay home from sleepaway camp. You watch what you eat, saying no thank you to candy and pizza and chips. You wait for your period while the girls in your class pass tampons and whisper. You study your thighs and your biceps and your calves in the mirror and push down the sting of what kids call you in school. You do your homework at night with a bag of ice under your hamstring or draped over your ankle. You learn to tape your body parts together, to carry a family-size jar of ibuprofen in your backpack, to treat the skin that’s been ripped off your palms with heavy, stinking ointment while you sleep.
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But you also grow up fast. You learn to take responsibility for your own time management, to create routine and discipline to ensure your own success, to set goals, break them down into steps, and feel the satisfaction of achieving them. Your body grows strong and capable. You break your school’s PE records for the 100-m sprint, bench press, and vertical leap. You beat any boy who dares to challenge you in arm wrestling. You master the art of extreme focus, tuning out the noise to apply your full attention to the task in front of you as if your life depends on it, because sometimes it sort of does. You amaze yourself with what you can do. You learn to fly.
And to give all that up—especially when you’ve accepted all the aches and pains and sacrifices that come with it—feels like leaving behind the best parts of yourself. Who are you when you can no longer strap your grips around your wrists and soar?
Which is why Biles’ return to the Olympics after pulling out from the competition three years ago is so important, why I can’t stop crying when I watch her compete. The road to gymnastics greatness is paved with girls who flamed out, girls who broke down, girls who decided it wasn’t worth it and threw in the towel. Some of us look back and marvel at how strong and fearless we were. Some of us kick ourselves for failing. What we all have in common is that we fought gymnastics, and gymnastics won.
Three years ago, it looked like even Biles, the GOAT, had been defeated by the sport. She did the right thing prioritizing her safety, and it’s easy to feel now that the choice was obvious, but at the time we feared she was done. It was devastating, physically painful to see her disorientation from the twisties, the mental block that caused her to lose track of her body in space, and it was gutting to watch as she withdrew from event after event. What a way that would have been to end a career.
But Biles persevered. She refused to let her story close on a low. She showed up to the Paris Olympics, ready as ever, and she brought her best. That’s winning—gold is just a bonus.
