judgment

Who Are You?

/ Jillcoach / 1 Comment

Don’t let other people answer that question for you.

I was a really curious and enthusiastic little kid. One of the very few TV shows I was allowed to watch was Star Trek. I looooooooved Star Trek and decided at age 4 that William Shatner was my boyfriend. (Side note: when I got a chance to meet him at age 50, I told him that, and he was wonderfully and perfectly sketchy and flirtatious about it.)

I also have the moon landing as one of my earliest memories, so it is no surprise that I ended up wanting to be an astronaut. Because of Star Trek and the women I saw there, it never crossed my mind that girls couldn’t do that, so that was my dream. I would become a pilot then get a job at NASA being an astronaut, and go into space and maybe the moon. It was a want and certainty as deep and vibrant as Van Gogh’s Starry Night. I had that absolute confidence that comes with being pre-pubescent and not having much experience with the crappiness of the world yet. Or frankly, the crappiness of people who should love you the most.

I was about 11 years old, in the car with my mom, and she asked, “So what do you want to be when you grow up?” It seemed like such a normal question at the time, but looking back I wonder how she didn’t already know. I made no secret of it. I wonder now if she didn’t ask just so she could say the NEXT thing: “An astronaut? You’re not good enough at math to do that!” It was so dismissive, so unfeeling, it felt like she had slapped me. At the time, I was in advanced classes for both language and math, and was at least a year ahead of most of my peers in both. I didn’t have a great algebra teacher, and was struggling a little with concepts, but I was still AHEAD of where I should have been. But I was 11 years old, and this was my mom, so “I’m not good at math” became a part of my story about myself, and I gave up on the idea of being an astronaut. I still wanted to, but that want had become a faded watercolor, a wish for the impossible.

Fast forward 5 years: I’m a junior in high school, starting to think about what was next, and considering the Air Force academy. I still wanted to be a pilot, you see, and maybe maybe that would teach me something I could do at NASA, even if I couldn’t be an astronaut because “I’m not good at math”. My swim coach who I’d been with for all those years asked me what I was thinking about, and I told him…and his response was to laugh and say, “The Air Force Academy? You’ll never make it! You don’t like being told what to do!” Again, I felt slapped. Another trusted adult, another evaluation of WHO I AM that was different than what I thought I was. But I was 16, and this was my coach, so “I don’t like being told what to do” became part of my story about myself, and I gave up on the idea of being a pilot.

Both of those interactions were pivotal moments in my life, and represent one of the few things I have regrets about: allowing other people’s opinions of who I am become who I accepted myself to be. I let other people define me for a LONG time, not trusting what I knew about myself but swallowing their off-hand remarks or criticisms as truth. I was in my 40’s before it struck me what I had done, and it was while I was juggling 4 jobs to keep things together after my divorce, that I said, “Wait a damn minute! I’m not LAZY like my family told me! What else were they wrong about?!”

The more I thought about it, the more annoyed I got. The very people who should have been supportive and encouraging were the source of my greatest angst and insecurity. What I finally realized is that everyone is going to have some kind of opinion about me, about who I am, based on their own baggage, perceptions, and insecurities, and that it is up to me to accept or reject it. Some people (like my coach) will do it thoughtlessly, like a joke, not understanding that it can take root in someone’s heart because they trust you. Some people (like my parents) think that saying negative things to you will motivate you to do better in order to prove them wrong. Some people (like my mom in particular) do it to manipulate your behavior into something that makes them feel more comfortable. Some people do it to bring you down, or because you don’t fit in a box they understand, or because they can only feel big if they make someone else feel small.

At the end of the day, you don’t have to understand their motivation. All you need to do is quickly weigh it against your own heart, “Does that feel right? Does that fit who I know myself to be?”, and if not, yeet that judgment into the universe and move on.

The other thing I learned and really want you to hear is to be suspicious of someone telling you who someone else is, especially if what they’re saying upsets you. (for example: “Democrats just want open borders” or “that kid is just saying he’s trans to win at sports”, etc) In this situation, their motivation DOES matter. Ask yourself why is this person telling me this? Do they have an axe to grind? Are they seeking attention/clicks? What do they get out of upsetting me? Do I have direct personal experience that supports or refutes this? Do they say nice things about other people or groups, or are they consistently negative? Why should I believe it? Why do I WANT to believe it?

Most of the time, people are absolutely full of shit about other people’s characters and motivation; we all judge each other through our own lens—”if I acted like that, it would be because I intended _____, or because I felt like ________, or because I wanted ______”. None of that tells you what is in someone else’s heart.

The bottom line is that I can’t control what other people think of me or others, but I absolutely can gatekeep what I choose to internalize. I don’t have to let their garbage attitudes direct the course of my life or my dreams and aspirations. I don’t have to fall for the clickbait. I don’t have to trust someone else’s analysis of a third party. And I absolutely do NOT have to allow other people to define who I am or what I “should” be.

I realized recently that my mom probably killed my astronaut dream out of fear that I actually could end up doing something so dangerous. Her choice to hurt me probably came from wanting to make herself feel better. It tracks with all the rest of her parenting. It was not in my personality, especially at that age, to push back with the single-minded “I’ll show you!”. My response for decades was to feel bad about myself and nurse hurt feelings. I don’t recommend this approach.

It’s What You Take Away From It

/ Jillcoach / Leave a comment

Swim-wall

As a swimmer and a coach, as someone for whom water has played a major part in life, the thought of drowning is beyond horrifying. Being in my wonderful, peaceful, familiar environment and not being able to manage the situation is the worst kind of helplessness I can fathom.

I was 18 years old, swimming for my summer league team. I had quit year round swimming the winter before, choosing instead to swim for fun and to coach for both my year round and summer teams. Life was good, and I was enjoying swimming wholeheartedly for the first time in a long time.

It was our All Star meet, our end of season championship, and I was going into it seeded first in my best event, the 50 backstroke. Things couldn’t have been better:  great weather, the support of my team, my favorite stroke, the middle lane, my last swim of my career. I was ready to go out on a high note.

I got a great start, but then the unthinkable happened:  my goggles came down. This almost NEVER happens in backstroke, but there they were, right across my mouth, positioned so they were dumping water up my nose, in my eyes, and down my throat. I swam on, thinking “What the heck? It’s only a 50, I’m in good shape, I’ll just hold my breath.”  I was ahead going into the turn, which was usually the best part of my race. As I pushed off, another unthinkable thing happened:  I came up under the lane line. The line was across my right shoulder, and I was stuck there, trying to fight my way up, having not been able to see or breathe since the start of the race. Thrashing my way to the surface, my lungs screaming, I gasped involuntarily, and sucked in water. That was it. The end of my race. I could not go on.

Here’s the kicker:  as I got to the side and an official helped me out, I coughed out a big ball of water and looked up just in time to see my dad make a gesture of disgust and leave the pool deck. No concern for my well-being, just disgusted disappointment in me for “quitting”. I was beyond devastated. Crushed and embarrassed to have disqualified in my best event, scared to death by inhaling water and going under, I then had to deal with my own father’s lack of care and his misunderstanding of what had occurred.

Needless to say, I had emotions about this one for a long time. A loooooooong time. Finally, I was able to put this incident in a perspective that helped me deal with it and get past my negative feelings, by asking myself “what did I learn from it?”  I learned that sometimes, for no particular reason, bad stuff happens. I learned that sometimes, try as you might to fight your way out of it, the bad stuff can keep coming and get the better of you for a time. I learned that sometimes stopping to regroup is the best choice you have. I learned that sometimes the people watching your struggle, even the people who love you the most, will misunderstand and have opinions and judge you. Most importantly, I learned that you don’t have to let any of that define you or become a permanent part of your self-image.

I lost a medal that day, but what I took away was far more valuable. In the end, that’s all that matters.

The Dreaded “Speedo”

/ Jillcoach / Leave a comment

swimsuits

I put the name Speedo in quotes here to denote the generic way in which this particular brand name has become synonymous with the really tight, itty-bitty racing suit. I in no way am either trying to endorse or bash the brand name product.

We’ve all seen them, mostly at swim meets, but sometimes (unfortunately) on the beach. When worn by a competition swimmer, they seem like an appropriate uniform for the sport, albeit a tiny one. There is nothing quite like trying to squeeze yourself into the smallest possible, tightest possible suit, then trying to move and move FAST. Oh, unless it’s putting yourself up on a starting block two feet above everyone’s head while you’re wearing said suit. Make no mistake, we swimmers have all heard the jokes and comments about how we look and what can be seen through the tightness of the suit. We know that every ounce of excess skin or body fat gets pushed out to the edges of the suit. We know that every defect, every pimple, every hair is visible through the material.

Talk about feeling vulnerable.

There are not many sports where putting on your uniform means taking off your clothes to this extent. There is an overcoming of self-consciousness and an acceptance of emotional nakedness that swimmers must learn to deal with. (Some are better at it than others, and are usually the ones who, as adults, will walk through the locker room naked while the rest of us are wondering what the hell their problem is.)

It is daunting to bare yourself in any sense, to “put yourself out there”, to open yourself to the judgments of others. Most of us avoid doing that at all costs. We clothe ourselves with degrees and job titles and the “right” house and friends in order to protect ourselves from the vulnerability of showing who we really are. What flaws might be seen? What might people think or say?

It is interesting to observe young swimmers move from a complete uninhibited lack of awareness into the extreme self-consciousness of puberty. Some kids will quit the sport because it’s just too uncomfortable to be that exposed and vulnerable, or develop coping strategies like hiding in the locker room or wrapping in a towel. The really interesting part is seeing how they move through the agony of feeling exposed back into a lack of inhibition, as though just the repetition of being “out there” takes away the fear of it.

Choosing to be vulnerable, to put our real selves on display, to brave the eyes and judgments of others. Repeating it until we no longer fear it, until being our true selves is uninhibited habit. A good lesson for all of us, perhaps.