Some people call me an athlete.
I've never really known how to feel about that. You might say, "take it as a compliment, Amy," or, you might say "well, you're athletic and you do races and whatnot, so yeah, you are!" And you might be right.
I've also heard people say that being an athlete is all in your head - that it's about what you *feel* and how you *think* about your body and your athletic prowess - that it's somehow about always striving for something more in your athletic life.
Bubblegum and marshmallows.
Don't ask me what I think, though, because I haven't quite decided. What I do know is that 7 years ago I quit smoking because I wanted to be athletic. I'm not sure if I ever thought that, as an obese woman in my mid-20s with a history of obesity and disordered eating behaviors (disclosure: emotional and binge eating), that I *could* be an *athlete* in the sense of the term I had always understood it.
My entire life I understood athletes as people who were talented at athletics from an early age; those who were crafted, nurtured, and trained as athletes; those who ran around in gym class and on the courts and fields of my high school while I sat, out of breath from walking up the bleachers; thin girls with long legs and long ponytails that somehow looked even better when drenched in sweat; tall boys with broad shoulders who were strong... because they were tall boys with broad shoulders and of course they could lift and push things and people.
I was no athlete. I wasn't born to be an athlete.
My entire life I was tall but with weirdly short legs that strangely sort of... pointed slightly outward from the knees in a way that made me trip over my feet in gym class. I was broad shouldered but not in the svelte-basketball player kind of way; I wore glasses and had the kind of hair that never really fit into a ponytail without frizzy, stray strands poking out and tickling my face.
So, 7 years ago I just wanted to be fast, to move well, to be "in shape" - whatever that meant. I wanted to be athletic... I guess. But after a couple years of dedicated workouts and kinda sorta thinking about food and learning about nutrition, I noticed my body changing in ways that made me wonder what might happen if I kept going - if I worked harder.
So I did. I hired a trainer, I pushed my boundaries, I learned more about nutrition; I set higher goals. And then I hit those goals - one after the other. I got faster and stronger, and then I even began instructing others in fitness. I used to look in the mirror every day and want more - to be leaner, to be stronger, to be the picture of an athlete.
And just as I was rising to the apex of that person - just as I was stealing those images from my youth and making them my own - I was diagnosed with MS.
I'll spare you that story, but I will say this: the diagnostic process for MS is lengthy and it is exhausting: a barrage of tests scattered across the space of several weeks - blood tests, eye tests, hearing tests, walking and touching and poking-needles-in-your-muscles tests, and a lumbar puncture.
After all the results were tabulated and the score announced, as you might imagine, I was told a lot of things. But of all those things, there was only one that mattered: I was told I might never walk again one day.
In that moment (and since that moment), I stopped trying to be an athlete. No, I did not stop training hard in the gym or signing up for races or learning about nutrition. I stopped wanting to *be* and only wanted to *do.*
Strange, but wonderful things happen when you stare down the barrel of disability. You see life in the distance, pushing fast behind an unpredictable bullet. Initially you jolt, but eventually you steady yourself - and during that time, you stop noticing the periphery.
I know that might sound sort of terrifying, but trust me it's not. It's a gift in disguise. A fucked up, terrifying disguise, yes, but nevertheless...
Am I an athlete? I don't know. An athlete, I think, is something that you *are,* someone you want to *be.* All I focus on now is what I can *do* and how well I can *do* it despite that bullet in the barrel.
I can walk, and I can run, I can jump, I can cycle, I can climb stairs, and while those things are difficult, I. STILL. CAN.
