Gymnast

Henry Zhang – Shadow Play

Julia Burnette

This is how you do your hair,” they demonstrated, every strand slicked back. 

“This is how you wear your leotard,” they instructed as the fabric clung to me like a second skin. 

“This is how you are not nervous before a competition,” they claimed, as if the flutter in my heart could be stilled by mere words — as if the tremble in my hands was a choice. 

“This is how you condition yourself to stay strong,” they urged, pushing every limit to make us better. At times, it felt like they were sculpting away my childhood, too.

 “This is how you balance your social life and sports,” they advised, though the scale was always tipped, the gym’s echo louder than laughter with friends.

“This is how you stay motivated,” they preached as if my motivation wasn’t worn thin by endless repetition.

“This is how you remain brave,” they dismissed, denying the real fear of a slip, a fall, a fracture—of the fine line between success and disaster.

“This is how you don’t get injured,” they lectured, as if injuries were just a matter of disobedience, not the toll of a body pushed beyond its breaking point.

“This is how you ignore jealousy,” they insisted, in a world where every achievement of a peer felt like a personal defeat.

“This is how to be happy for others,” they demanded, masking envy with applause, learning that sometimes congratulations are just another performance.

“This is how you don’t fall behind,” they warned, as if life was a race and every moment not advancing was a moment falling back.

“This is how you get past a mental block,” they proposed, not understanding that some barriers aren’t as easy to push through.

“You aren’t injured. You are faking it,” they accused, mistrusting the honest groans of a body that had been too loyal and strong for too long.

“Stop being so scared,” they scolded, unable to see that courage isn’t the absence of fear, but the decision to perform despite it.

“Just go for it,” they urged, as if hesitation was a crime, as if every moment of pause was taking away my progress.

“Climb the rope, you balked,” they mocked, as if every retreat showed weakness.

“If you cry, you can go home,” they threatened, equating tears with surrender, with a lack of grit that they couldn’t tolerate.

“Stop fooling around. No sitting down. You need to be tighter. Try harder,” they chanted, with their demands and disappointments always beside you.

“Your form is awful. You fell, I am disappointed in you. You won second place. Why didn’t you try harder?” they critiqued, turning each performance you felt proud of into only corrections.

“You did awful at this competition, so I am not talking to you. You have done better. It’s been way too long. Just get over it!” they berated as if the sting of failure wasn’t enough without their salted words.

“Stop crying. You are being dramatic. You can’t have that floor music, but I’ll give it to someone else. Smile, you are being disrespectful. You have an attitude. Go home. If you don’t want to be here, then leave. I don’t care,” they dismissed, and soon every emotion was an enemy, every tear a traitor.

“I know it hurts, but I don’t care, keep going. Your team is depending on you; don’t let them down. Winners don’t complain. You are smaller, so obviously, it’s easier for you,” they continued, their words filled with toughness and toxicity, turning the sport I loved so much into something I loathed.