A few weeks after the Commonwealth Games, I was asked to write up a little report. This is the aftermath.
It’s no longer a report, but an emotional spiel from someone who has too much to say.
Thank you for giving it the time.
MAY 2018
If you told me 12 months ago that I would be writing about my time as an athlete at the Commonwealth Games, I wouldn’t have believed you. If you told me I would 8 months ago, I might have shrugged nervously in hope, and if you told me again 4 months ago, I again would have wholeheartedly disagreed. This is how a lot of the last 18 months have gone for me since coming back from retirement in November of 2016; up, down, side to side and just zig-zagging around. However, it isn’t until now, after an inexplicable journey that I can finally write to you of my experience as a participant at the 2018 Gold Coast Commonwealth Games.
When you’ve known injury as extensively as I have, you begin to understand the importance in rolling with the punches. You can’t have a set idea or plan of how your routines will go, and how your preparation should be. Instead, you rock up every day prepared to do your best no matter the circumstance. This wasn’t a conscious game plan during the games, but an approach I have applied since my return most belligerently.
Waking up on the day of competition is just like waking up every other day of your life, except it isn’t. You try to replicate the schedule of days before and the anxiety only seems to dissipate slowly around the time you apply your make up and do your hair. Welcome to Rhythmic Gymnastics, a sport of counting faults, of Swarovski Crystals and make believe.
When I entered the gym for the first day of competition, there was an odd sense of numbness which I’ve been all too familiar with in the past. These past 2 years, I exercised a lot of mindfulness which I swear by. It can help to settle the overwhelming sense of anxiety if you stop to pay attention to the little things. You fixate on what your senses can determine, on what you know and what makes this moment, a moment, not THE moment. And then you go.
There was a mess up with our entries, and for weeks I was told that I’d be the second Australian to perform, but whilst warming up, I was notified that I’d be the first. As I’ve said before, I’ve grown up to roll with the punches, and like our coach Danielle Le Ray had said only moments before, ‘expect the unexpected’. Like most things, she was right.
“Nothing will prepare you for the noise. Imagine what you think and then make it louder.” This is what Dani Le Ray had told me as I walked up the corridor to the competition hall, looking down at my slides and just walking forwards; one foot in front of the other. My name is called and I walk out, a jet of smoke shoots out behind me, and the noise. The noise is nothing like I’ve ever experienced. There are too many moments which I could go on to even begin to explain, but I’ll divulge in two whilst on that competition floor. I opened as the first Australian to compete, I took my starting position with my hoop and thought of a line in Nadia Comaneci’s book I had read in my youth;
“I don't run from a challenge because I am afraid. Instead, I run toward it because the only way to escape fear is to trample it beneath your feet.”
It’s weird that all you have to do sometimes in the moments where it matters most is just to do the same thing as all the times before. I don’t remember the details of that first routine, or any of the others. I remember the start and the finish, and the feeling was magic, those thousands of people cheering you, supporting you, just because you’re an Australian. That’s the beauty of the Australian people, they love their sport, and they bloody love the underdog.
I went in to day one of competition with only one purpose, to contribute wholeheartedly to the team score. After my last routine, I remember just a quiet exhilaration in knowing that I’d done my job, I’d fulfilled my requirements and had the best time of my life doing it. I didn’t go into competition aiming to be the top 2 ranked athlete, and maybe that’s why I was. With my injuries and copious injections I’d received only weeks earlier, I knew better than to be hungry for more. It was a privilege to be there. All of us had worked hard and we were all deserving of a spot to compete at the All-Around Finals.
Unfortunately, competition doesn’t work like that and whilst everyone is worthy, it’s cold and cruel in that your place is determined by your performance on the day. I am not a hungry a gymnast (literally, maybe), and I’ve never been the kind of person, let alone athlete that has wanted to win all the time. I’ve read of great sportspeople who describe themselves as being aggressively competitive and driven. For a long time I thought this made me a bad athlete, and unable to compete. I have learnt, and the Games have cemented for me the fact that if you do you, you’ll give yourself the best chance at anything. If you don’t back yourself, who will? So, you can imagine my surprise when I’d learnt that I’d be competing on all three days of the Commonwealth Games. Crazy.
For Danni and I, the Games meant something else entirely. Being part of the pool of older athletes, it signified not the start of a promising future gymnastics career, but a steady finish to a long, convoluted journey. The medal ceremony was special, there’s no denying that. It didn’t matter to us what colour that medal was, but how we came to receive it, and to be able to do so in front of our friends and family, the home crowd and by extension- the host country. The medal represented my gratitude to every single person who believed in me, had ever encouraged me and supported me. It isn’t my medal, but our medal, and that’s what made it special.
My mum and I had made plans to get pancakes on the Thursday morning following competition, instead I was back on the bus after 5 hours of sleep on my way to compete again. I started the competition with an almost paste-like instant coffee, and half a cup of Coke- something I never drink. It went forward like that once more, Sasha and I going through the motions, fuelled by adrenalin and chemist-grade jellybeans. It’s also funny that no matter how many times you repeat the same situation, it never gets any easier. How many times had I done these routines? How many competitions had I prepared for and completed? I think this competition was in many ways alike as it was different to the countless times before. A particular distinguishing factor was the crowd and the sensation I felt each time I walked off the mat. For my clubs routine, I could hear the crowd in a way which made my bones throb. The thundering of the audience echoed through my chest and it fuelled a strange high. It was nothing like I’d ever experienced and I want to thank every single person who was present in that stadium for giving me their attention and their heart as I had tried to give mine. For most, that moment has already gone, for me, it will be imprinted like an etching into my sternum forever. Thank you for affecting me the way you have.
When I had finished my last routine and learned that I was sitting in third place, it was again shocking and heartrending that I almost cry to think about it! Lots of people had asked me why I had reacted the way I had, that surely I must have known I was sitting so close to medal contention. When you’re in the back of the stadium warming up, you have 101 other things on your mind that outweigh your want to keep count of scores and placing. You’re warming up your next routine, trying to conserve energy and massaging the aches that seem to awaken off the competition floor. You’d go crazy if you tried to keep score. I never even paid any attention to the little ranking number that appeared at the Kiss & Cry, believe it or not! I later found that I sat in fourth position by something like less than a point. I hadn’t expected to compete the following days, and to even be there and to have performed what I believed to be some of my most enjoyable moments, that for me was a win. The rest of the competition went on and apparatus finals took place the following day. I woke up after 3 and a half hours of sleep and carried on. I finished the Commonwealth Games as the highest ranked Australian, 4th in the All-around competition, and having competed in 3 apparatus finals. How is it that an old mule, with 18 months of interrupted training became the fourth highest ranked rhythmic gymnast in the Commonwealth?! I guess crazier things have happened.
My body wasn’t supposed to last this long. We stitched it up long enough to withhold the first day, it was my job to get in and out, contribute fully and worry about the physical consequences later. At that point I think I was just running on adrenalin, I woke up every morning because my heart continued to tick over and I started each day thinking, ‘well, you might as well die in battle’.
They say an athlete dies twice, the first when they retire. I can say that this sentiment is both right and wrong. I left a piece of myself on the carpet of Coomera Stadium in Gold Coast on Friday the 13th of April (coincidence?), 2018. It was the day I performed for the last time as a Senior Elite athlete. I cried in devastation of my end, in sheer joy and pure relief, in apology for the times I’d let everyone down, let myself down, in sincerest gratitude for my coach, family, friends, and entire Australian Gymnastics community. I cried because it was over.
I still wake up every day thinking back to those few days, that tiny meagre portion of my life in disbelief and I smile every single time I think about it. Those reading this may seem it dramatic for it having such a profound impact on me, but it’s not only the weight of something like the Games that has changed me, but my process in getting there. This is why I believe that we not only die, but also were continually sculpted throughout our time as elite sports people. Every moment that seemed unfair, too hard, the times I felt gymnastics took human wants and needs from me, I was constantly told “you’re not human, you’re an athlete”. It is one of the most significant privileges I will ever have in my lifetime.
Without divulging into too much detail, there were times where it seemed impossible to believe in a Happy Ending, and maybe to believe in one was silly and childish. All athletes will struggle in a way that escapes the understandings of people who do not exercise the amount of control, or repetition, or value sense of self synonymous with tangible results. Mental health is an important topic and one I candidly wish to mention. I have seen team mates struggle, and I have struggled. I am lucky to have continued to wake up to the point where I can distinguish a Bad Day and a Good Day, and it is incredible that the 6 minutes of actual competition can make it all seem worthwhile, when at one time there was only infinite black. Maybe that’s why there are lights and shiny crystals and glitter galore in the world of Rhythmic Gymnastics, because when we wrestle relentlessly into an oblivion of hopelessness, we need a spark to remind us what we’re fighting for.
When I say ‘thank you’, it doesn’t seem enough. Is there a word greater, more sincere than the humble ‘thank you’? If there is, I owe it and wish it to everyone and anyone who has ever thought of me, even if for a single moment. I won’t flatter myself into thinking they were good thoughts, but your time has been enough. I in particular thank my incredible, incredible coach and life mentor Danielle Le Ray, and all the coaching staff at the Le Ray Gymnastics High Performance Centre (to Veronica Sologuren, Marija Vuk Luboya and more). What an honour it has been to be part of a team of dedicated, passionate and knowledgeable people. I wouldn’t have ever been the gymnast I could become, or the woman I am now if not for the belief and the relentless push from my coaches. Thank you to Gymnastics Australia and Gymnastics New South Wales. It was the CEO of Gymnastics NSW, Aaron Bloomfield who urged me to return to gymnastics, and I would never have believed that people outside my immediate vicinity even cared to think of how I felt when I was a retired athlete. Thank you to a governing body who humanises its athletes, and gives them life not only for their athletic capabilities but for their belief in us as people.
Thank you to my physiotherapist Kingsley Gibson and the team at Sydney Sports Medicine Centre, and Paul Penna (and Melissa Weinberg Games psychologist) my sports psychologists for keeping my body and mind as whole as humanly possible. From a Crazy to you, I can say it wasn’t easy, and they’re magicians in their own rights. Two people joined my team later on in my career, the knowledgeable men at 4D, Dom Nasso in particular and Helen Stamakos at Pilates InSync. They are experts in their fields and I’m humbled by their assistance. So much of my love goes out to my high school PE department, particularly to Mrs “Miss” Lisa Brown, and Mr “Sir” Tony Stojcovski, then to my Sydney University Elite Athlete Department, to Tom Morison in particular. These people made being a student athlete possible.
Thank you to the Australian Gymnastics community for being such a supportive network of talented people. There were many who sent me messages of encouragement, and I thank you for your time and your thoughts. Coming from someone who uses a maximum of three fingers to type, trust me when I say, it never went unnoticed.
Thank you to all the judges and officials. Athletes, sometimes it feels like the judges are the Bad Guys, that all they want to do is deduct your marks and judge you critically with beady eyes. Most of the judges I have come across, and hold dear to my heart have judged me harshly, have made me aware of my faults and errors only to better me as an athlete. So, thank you, thank you for being the designated “Bad Guys”, and graciously accepting your role and gravity of this position you hold in someone’s narrative.
How good are mates?! Thank you to Team Australia- Team Manager, Team Physio, my incredibly dedicated and talented pair of soldiers Danielle Prince and Alexandra Kiroi-Bogytrova, and all the other team mates and competitors, friends I’ve met along the way. My school and university friends who are beautiful and driven people, I am thankful for you. My best friend without whom I would never have started the sport, Melissa Haddad- you’re a Leading Bloody Lady. My partner Jack Edwards during the games period would deny me things like post-dinner ice cream runs, and in return copped my whinging and whining, and it’s he who is a better athlete than I, thank you.
Finally, my parents are superhuman, and I will be forever grateful for them assuming the roles of personal chauffeurs, cooks, PA’s, mentors, protectors, pretty much just Love personified. Mums, dads, guardians- what mind-blowing roles these people have in facilitating seemingly impossible goals. Lastly, thank you to YOU. Thank you for reading this and on some level caring about a Nobody but somebody who has pursued their dream. Thank you for believing in me when I couldn’t. We did it.
I hope you also set out for the little thrills in life that make it worthwhile.
I hope you all have a Games moment.
It is truly spectacular.