Quitting is forever.

The phrase, 'Pain is temporary, Quitting is forever,' was written on the board at the gym. I knew the professional had written it. It oozed of him and his philosophy.

That's a good thing.

It was there the day after I had already started writing about how I normally would have wanted to quit. I started writing it not knowing where I was going with it. 

But I needed a nudge.

Since I have started this new phase in my life I have been visited by the same self-doubt that was a close friend and neighbor of mine. It had been a while since I had allowed it in, so it came back for visits.

But every time I had an hint of self doubt or a desire to quit I was given a little nudge.

I'm sure it is God. It has to be. Nothing else is that powerful.

Whether it was something I read or something that was said to me,  it was always present with a comforting feeling. Something to keep me on track.

A tiny intervention.

The self-doubt and desire to quit is still somewhere deep down. Evil is always present. But I am in a place where it knows that it cannot be let in.

When I read that phrase at the gym I knew it was more than a nudge. I wasn't thinking about quitting. I was on a high.

I was in pain. But it was a good pain.

I knew God was asking me to address something that I had been ignoring for 20 years.

This past year I have been revisiting and addressing uncomfortable places in my life. I have intentionally avoided this one.

As usual, God had a different plan.

It was time to face the first time I had ever quit something.

It was a big one. It was something that I loved. Dearly. It was what kept me sane and focused. It was what kept me waking up every day. And I quit it.

I had known since the day that I quit gymnastics that it was going to be the biggest regret in my life.

And it has been.

It set the stage for my future.

Quitting gymnastics was such a pivotal point in my life because it was all that I had. It was my thing.

I had moved from Bogota, Colombia. (I was cute)

I had lived overseas my whole life. I knew a life of maids, nannies, diplomats, protocol, passports, private schools, armed guards, etc. To say that moving to North Texas in the early 80's was a culture shock would be a great under statement.


W.A. Porter Elementary School was my very own personal daily Hell.

We moved the summer before second grade. Circa 1982. People forget, and are shocked when I say this, but it was less than 10 years after a Federal Judge was ordered to over-see the desegregation of the Dallas Schools.

We were in the burbs of Fort Worth, but the mentality was the same as Dallas.

My first day of second grade, new school, new country, the principal came to me to let me know what she thought of me. Of my kind.

She grabbed my chin with her cold, pale, old hands and forced me to look her in the eyes.

"I don't like you or your kind. I will be watching you."

She kept to her word. She watched my every move. The teachers watched my every move.

Every time there was a mess in the bathroom or graffiti on the playground I was to blame. If there was a disturbance in the classroom they were sure that I was the instigator. If there was a lice out-break it must have been started by me.

That wasn't the worst part. Not only was I a few shades darker than everyone else, I was also different. A little odd.

Aspie. But before it was a diagnosis.

They called it lazy. They expected that because I was that shade of brown. The lazy shade.

The kids picked up on it too. No doubt they were influenced by what they had seen and heard at home as well as school.

Bullying came from everywhere. 

There were a few sweet souls that helped me through and defended me the whole time.


I could name them all if you asked.

At some point, one of the neighborhood kids had started gymnastics. Their mom offered to take me to the classes as well.

I do not remember trying to learn the basics. I do not remember struggling. I do remember the coaches taking an interest in me.

I was a natural.

Soon I went from the regular starter class to the three-day a week class. That was for the girls that could do back-hand-springs.

It was serious.

From there was more advancing. More skill and dedication. More work.

I remember a coach telling a group of girls, with whom he was frustrated, that I had more skill, drive and desire in my pinkie than most girls, in the gym,  had combined.

Gymnastics was right after school most days. It was what kept me going throughout the day.

The judgment at the gym was not based on what I didn't do or say it was what I could do. Of what I was capable. Trying and succeeding.

There was not much that I tried that I could not accomplish at the gym. If I failed, I was faced with the same type of do-it-again attitude that I face now with the professional.

Not much changed from second to sixth grade. School was horrible. I hated my teachers. They hated me.

By the time I was in sixth grade I was well advanced enough in gymnastics and had proven myself in the gym that I had a little bit of confidence. I had earned the respect of my coaches and the gym owner.

I had a brilliant idea to cross the lines of school and gymnastics. I suggested to my PE teacher and my gymnastics coach that the gym should do an exhibition at the school. Numbers were exchanged. Plans were made.

They took me seriously.

This was going to be fabulous.

I was going to shine.

This was going to be my vindication for five years of Hell.

But it did not work out that way.

The week before the exhibition I had an ear infection. I missed an entire week of school. An entire week of school work.

My teacher, Mr. K, pulled aside my coach and told him that I was failing. A whole weeks worth of work was missing.  He said that at his gym, failing athletes were not able to compete.

My coach came to me and told me that I could not perform.

I could not shine.

No vindication.

Instead, my teacher suggested three girls that he knew were gymnasts. Three of my fiercest taunters.

At that point I was absolutely inconsolable. I was angry. I had been betrayed. The coach was so concerned about my reaction he took me to the Principal's office.

Perhaps she could talk some sense into me. She would make it ok. (There was a new principal. Eagle-Eye Nolan was no longer there.) Mrs. Ingram tried.

She said quitting was dramatic. That I would regret it. She really tried.

I think a part of me died that day. I was never the same.

Any fabulous direction that my life could have gone was no longer an option. Quitting was to become my new thing.

Quitting is forever.

But, healing is powerful.

The healing and grace that concludes this is amazing. I do not look back to that story and wish I could change history. I don't look back with the same kind of regret. I do not lament over what kind of life I could have had. No if only's.

I look back and see who I was when I was a child. Who I was suppose to be.

I see an eleven-year-old girl that organized a gymnastics exhibition. A strong girl with hope and ambition. A doer. A fighter.

This is my vindication.

This is my time to shine.

This is me being fabulous.