When the Love for Something Isn’t Enough: My Journey as a Gymnast

Have you ever loved something so deeply that, when you’re doing it, the rest of the world completely disappears? It’s that immersive state we call “flow.” Growing up in a small town, that was me in the gym. Gymnastics wasn’t just a sport — it was my world. The chalk dust, the rhythm of routines, the crash mats, the ache of stretching beyond limits — it was all sacred.

I started from a very young age, and gymnastics quickly became my first love. It was where I felt most alive, most like myself. A place where joy lived and fear didn’t exist — at least not at first.

The Seed of Doubt

But that all started to change around the age of 11.

The thoughts crept in slowly at first.

“I’m not good enough.”

That one sentence became the soundtrack of my inner world. The voice in my head began to overpower everything else.

What changed?

A year before, I was fearless. Confident. Light-hearted. But around that time, the adults in my life — coaches, mentors, even judges — began to highlight only what I wasn’t doing right. I was eager to grow, desperate to master my craft, and hungry for guidance. But instead of being nurtured, I was picked apart. Every flaw, every bent knee, every wobble became the focus.

I internalized it. As a young, impressionable athlete, I believed everything they said. Instead of getting feedback, I got fault-finding. It chipped away at me — until all I could see was what I lacked.

Self-Doubt Fueled a Chase for Perfection

That’s when the chase for perfection began. It wasn’t something I consciously chose. It was survival.

Soon, “not good enough” wasn’t just a passing thought — it became my identity. Even when I nailed a routine, I’d fixate on the tiny misstep. My inner critic grew louder than any applause. No matter how well I did, I always found the flaw.

In gymnastics — a sport where perfection is the goal but never the reality — this became a trap. And I was caught in it. Ruthless with myself. Relentless. I didn’t celebrate wins; I dissected them for the parts that still weren’t perfect.

Over time, the gym — my once joyful place — turned into a chamber of fear and shame. A spotlight that revealed my most fragile parts. I wasn’t just scared of making mistakes — I was terrified of being seen making them.

The Vulnerability of Sports

Looking back, my confidence wasn’t just low — it was shattered.

And because gymnastics was such a huge part of who I was, my sense of self started to unravel outside the gym, too. My well-being and performance were intertwined. When one suffered, so did the other.

It became a painful cycle:
Self-doubt → fear → poor performance → more self-doubt.
I lived in fear of being exposed.
So I started playing small. Holding back. Silencing my spark.
The more I did that, the more my fear was reinforced — and the deeper I sank.

At the time, I had no idea I was caught in a negative feedback loop. I just knew I didn’t feel like myself anymore. The pressure, the judgment, the criticism — it all became too much.

The mat, the beam, the bars — instead of being places of play and possibility — felt like battlegrounds. I was performing, but not living inside the sport I loved.

My Fire Was Gone

After years of living like this, something in me finally cracked.

My love for the sport had burned out. I blamed gymnastics. I blamed the judges, the coaches, the pressure. I even blamed myself. But I didn’t understand, as a young girl, how much pain I was carrying — or that I had the right to let it go.

There was a strange kind of freedom in letting go. For the first time, I wasn’t consumed by self-judgment at practice. The voice was still there — but quieter. And somewhere in the space it left behind, I could finally breathe.

That’s when I decided to return — not to chase medals or approval — but for me.

No pressure. No expectation. No one to impress.

And something shifted.

I found joy again. I felt the freedom of movement, the thrill of challenge, the fun of being upside down. I reconnected with the why behind it all — the little girl who just loved to move and express herself through motion.

That changed everything.

The Rebirth

I didn’t come back as the best gymnast in the room, but I came back as the truest version of myself. Stronger. Wiser. More compassionate.

I had faced adversity — not just in sport, but within myself — and came out on the other side with clarity and resilience. I began to wonder what it would have been like if I had someone to walk with me through those dark years. Someone to say, “You’re not broken. You’re human. And this is all part of your becoming.”

Why I Do This Work Now

That’s why I do the work I do now — to create a safe space for others. Because I know how lonely and painful it can be when your identity is wrapped up in your performance. When you’re expected to be perfect, but you’re only ever shown your flaws.

With my background in both sport and psychology, I found my calling — to help athletes and performers discover their power not by silencing their struggles, but by embracing them. I teach them how to turn self-doubt into self-awareness, pressure into presence, and fear into fuel.

It’s not just about winning. It’s about becoming — through the pain, the imperfection, the process.

I help them reclaim joy. Rebuild confidence. And step into their next season not just as stronger athletes, but as more whole, resilient human beings.

Because I believe this:
Our struggles don’t define us — they refine us.

And from that fire, a more powerful version of ourselves can rise.