The world’s best athletes are currently congregated, competing to be the best of the best in the world. Impressive to watch, I’m amazed by their endless grace and grit to compete no matter the cost. The storyteller in me loves watching this drama unfold and is immediately brought back to an inconsequential moment that continues to unfold in my life.

I distinctly remember when Mary Lou Retton scored a perfect 10. I was 6, sipping Tang on my childhood home’s brown shag carpet. Gymnastics didn’t interest me, but my viewing options were limited by the analog channels that came with a rabbit ear antenna in rural Minnesota. I watched in awe as this 4-foot-9 larger than life spitfire launched her way to gold and the front of a Wheaties box.

Soon after, my 6-year-old brain lead me out back to repeat Retton’s performance that appeared so effortless on television. Mind you, the Tomboy in me lacked any coordination or gymnast skills, but my ego was endless. I cued up her music in my head and danced awkwardly around my back yard. Even without a mirror, I knew I lacked the vertical on my jumps and my attempts to tuck and curl when hitting the ground gracefully felt more like an elephant coming in for a crash landing. I knew I needed to level up my game. I wasn’t giving Mary Lu or this sport justice. Without thinking, or, the thinking of a 6-year-old, I began sprinting at full speed with a goal to land a cartwheel.

Fear didn’t stop me. Nor did logic. About the time my hands hit the ground, my brain caught up with my body and informed me it had no idea what to do. Gravity did its job as it pulled my body back to earth as I went a$$ over tea kettle. A perfect 10? We’ll never know. I just know that when I landed, I landed hard. My ankle gave out from the awkwardness and force of it all. It didn’t break but it broke something inside of me. I slid to the grass defeated. Shocked, tears streamed down my face, a combination of pain and shame.  

I glanced around for witnesses. My pet goat PJ, eyed me up wearily from his pen, more interested in when I might let him out to graze than my well-being. It’d be years before digital cameras, social media and selfies existed so the only captured memory of this moment is the one that replays over and over in my brain. I slowly stood up to assess the damage. My ankle tender and certainly sprained but not broken. I hobbled my way back to my house where my parents are too busy with their own problems to notice.

Over the next few months, Mary Lou’s perfect 10 haunted me. My friends who once struggled to ride a bike or lap me in the pool were suddenly rockstar gymnasts landing cartwheels and backbends daring me to do the same. Jealous for the first time in my life, I’d shake it off by pretending I was too cool to want to be a gymnast. After all, Tomboys played real sports.

Mary Lou’s impact on the sport and Gen X females is insurmountable. She empowered young women with a sport that behind the scenes was ridden with corruption, abuse, and fear. A reminder that things aren’t always as they seem. For me, she was the ghost of limiting beliefs that would temper my ego and remind me, I am far from invincible. It’d be a few years before I dared to try a cartwheel again, only to fail again.

Forty years later, not much has changed for me. I still cannot land a cartwheel. A narrative I hope to change thanks to a gymnast named Simone Biles. Four years ago, I watched her step away from the sport she loved to put herself first during a global pandemic. It was a heavy, yet empowering and impressive message for people of all ages, including me. I doubt she wanted that burden any more than Retton, but her comeback is a reminder of the power of possibility. A story of hope and redemption that isn’t lost on me or I hope you during these heavy times.

If you enjoyed this and want to hear more in the future, please consider subscribing to my e-newsletter Rural Ramblings here.