I cleared the bar for the last time. My timing was off and I was favoring my left leg. The hot surface beneath me pulsated as my foot clapped the ground, and as my body arched above the air, a searing pain split down my back like a quick flash of lightning. I found my way to the mat as the bar clattered to the auburn track. I lay in the cradling mesh for a moment in agony, but the moment was brief, and I rolled backwards off the pit into an upright position. I don't think it completely dawned on me—until ice had been pressed against my lower left back and the crowd was fervently cheering on the remaining jumpers—that I would never again be able to compete in high jump for my high school. I would never break that long-standing record of five feet five inches. I would never be able to discover my full potential in this event I'd loved for so long, at least in a high school track meet. But strangely enough, I wasn't upset or angry or disappointed. Sure, I wanted to clear 5'2" again, but none of that really mattered. I'd gained something immensely more important.
When I came out for track freshman year, I hardly knew what high jump even was. I was an eager young gymnast encouraged by my coach to try something new. And I discovered that I was good at it. I fell in love with the bar—a cruel, taunting cylinder of wood resting between two metal standards. It was still and beautiful in an odd sort of way, trying desperately to convince me I wasn't good enough. I fell in love with that feeling when I proved it wrong, when my body molded over its slick surface and landed elegantly on the mat below. And I fell in love with flying. Then, when I cleared five feet for the first time a fire sparked within me, and the once impossible prospect of breaking the school record was now possible. That summer I went to a high jump camp in Minnesota and cleared 5’2” shortly thereafter.
Sophomore year, I injured my hip flexor in triple jump, and I became afraid. I didn’t know how to handle this new injury and out of fear of injuring myself further, I made excuses to not work as hard even when I was capable. I did high jump, because I loved it, but avoided sprinting. This didn't go over well with the head coach.
I almost quit track altogether my junior year. One twinge of slight pain in my hip flexor on a single occasion and the fear of having to deal with an injury again came flooding back. Besides, I was out of shape. How would I get back to where I was before? In the end, the desire to be on the team trumped my petty fears and while it took a lot of courage, I asked to be given another chance the day before the first meet. I didn't have many expectations that season, as I hadn't trained in the off-season. Ironically enough, it turned out to be my best season yet, and I went on to win the seeded section in high jump at the county meet. During the season, however, I hurt my back landing on the bar at practice due to exhaustion, because I didn't know when to give it a rest. I was out for a short time icing it, and by the time Channel League Finals came around I fell short of qualifying for prelims. I was devastated, promising myself that I would push myself to the limit the next year and break records.
Senior year, I was able to participate in off-season track. Every day, we ran and did drills and tested abilities and lifted in the weight room—the air thick with heat—with music blasting until beads of sweat poured over our brows. It was the first time that I was giving my all to my workouts and it felt incredible. As off-season neared its end, we were released for the much anticipated winter break. I'd had a minor injury before this and was out for a week. On top of that, I caught a bad flu during break and was unable to practice. This was the beginning of the end. My motivation lacked trying to get in shape again and my fear of doing the dreaded sprint workouts with the head coach led me to go to triple jump practice instead. Despite my bad history with this event, I went ahead and bounded and pounded my legs until they were sore and weak. Big mistake. At first I thought the pain in my back was simply my body not being used to the drills yet—an activation of lactic acid. But as the weeks went on, the pain only got worse until it was affecting me at long jump and high jump, as well. It hurt when my head coach didn't seem to believe me (due to my history with injuries) when I asked not to do the sprint events since it aggravated my back. But he gave me the benefit of the doubt and only entered me in high jump thenceforth. I shouldn't have even done that. I like to think it was karma that I was out most of the season again, working my butt off for about two months in the spin room as my fellow peers broke records and made PR's. I believe that when a lesson isn't learned it reappears over and over again until it is. My lesson was fear—fear of disappointment, of injury, of hard work, of being the best athlete and person I could be. Unlike other times I'd been injured, I didn't have the choice to step up to the plate and not be afraid. This time it was out of my hands. All I could do was work out in the spin room, ice, and try to finish off my season with dignity until I could properly heal myself.
So, as I attempted to clear the bar for the last time at Channel League Finals, I realized something. I didn't break any records or achieve the goals I'd set for myself. Then again, I never truly committed myself to it. But I now know that if want anything in life I need to commit. I need to work hard, and yet, know when to take a rest. I now know that while I can be fearful, I don't have to let fear take over, for fear is the opposite of love. I've never been a very confident person, but what I've taken away from this whole experience is the confidence to follow my future dreams and aspirations. I know the road will be rough at times and there will be moments when I want to make excuses and give up. I'll keep pushing forward until I've cleared the menacing bar and achieved my goals. Because at the end of the day, the bar is just a bar and it's up to me to see how high I can fly.