I call myself many things. I describe myself in many ways. Proudly, I wear many badges.
I am intelligent, I am a good writer, I am funny, I am weird. I am gorgeous (oh, yes, I rock that adjective for myself daily and SO SHOULD YOU). I am black girl magic made real. I am a Queen. I mean, I go big with the words I use on myself.
I have described myself as powerful. I have referred to myself as a titan. I have referred to myself as the highest paid showrunner in Hollywood.
I have also referred to myself as a someone who should shut up.
My ego, she is not small.
I swagger. I own me. I do. I mean, I called it SHONDAland for God’s sake.
But I have my limit. I do. There are walls.
Never in my life would it have ever occurred to me to call myself an athlete. That’s my wall.
Serena is an athlete. Venus. LeBron. Kobe was a beautifully talented athlete. Misty Copeland is a dancer but don’t sleep on that. Dancing is hard work. Dancing will take you down. So you can damn well bet she’d consider herself an elite athlete.
They use their bodies the way I use my keyboard. They work and they train and they find a flow and a spirit. They use their minds to find the tactical means to do what needs to be done, to create the soul inside of the work. For the best, it’s never just a sport that makes them awesome to watch. They illuminate their platforms with a fire for greatness. They have a love for it. They enjoy the moves.
I…curl up on the sofa. Sometimes I’m sitting on the floor. I have a fire for pizza and double mac and cheese. Don’t get me wrong: I work. And I work hard. I put on these headphones and open my laptop and I slip inside another world. I become a story and it is magic for me. My brain is sparking and I’m hoping for flow and spirit. But the only muscles I’m moving are the ones in my fingers. My body is a lump.
I mean, I was someone who worked out. Y’all know I have a Peloton bike. And I’m obsessed with it. It’s pretty. And it has a matching shoe. I love a matching shoe. It also have intensely human instructors who talk to you. Right to you. Well they are talking to everyone but it feels like they are talking to you. Anyway, I am a Peloton maniac and nobody even pays me to talk about it so you know my love is real. So I did work out. Because I had to. Because I was supposed to. I did it the way a kid eats vegetables. I made a face the whole time. Exercise was not for me. It was good for me but it was not FOR me. I’m a fan of the classes but I did the least amount possible. 15 minute class? You bet. 45 minute class? Never. Ever.
But a couple of months ago, that changed.
This pandemic, this horrible year, has me questioning every single aspect of my life. We’ve all been upended in painful and strange ways. In the midst of it all, many of us have had to redefine ourselves. Homeschool teacher, cook, unemployed, essential worker, grieving family member. Some marriages grew stronger. Some marriages ended.
And as the year headed towards its end, in the midst of all the questioning, I started to question everything. Big and small. I’ll tell you about more of it later. But one thing that I started to question was the way I was taking care of myself. Because I wasn’t. I was taking care of everyone else. Kids, employees, family. But I’d forgotten about me. And I asked myself this question: if I approached taking care of me the way I approach my job, what would that look like?
Well. I have referred to myself as powerful. I have referred to myself as a titan. I do not take my work lightly. If I approached taking care of myself the same way I approached my job, I would at least be…
…kinda athletic, right?
That’s a hard thought for someone like me. Someone who has never run a full mile. Someone who thinks people who do full miles should probably pause for an ice cream cone and rethink their lives. Someone who has never really gotten to know her abdominal muscles. Not personally. I mean, I know they’re in there but…we haven’t met face to face.
But the thing about that is…when you define yourself the way I just did, it sticks. If I define myself as someone who isn’t fit, who will never be fit, that is who I become. If that is the story I tell myself, that is who I am. I will never run a mile. I will make jokes about pausing for an ice cream cone. And tell myself it’s okay because that world of running and sweating? It’s not for me. That’s someone else’s story. Go them. I can’t do that. I will watch. I will be a spectator. I am not invited to play because I’ve taken my name off any list.
Damn.
It’s a hard thought. But like I said, my ego, she is not small.
Don’t tell me I can’t do something.
I mean, I am a writer. I define myself by my ability to write a story. I define my life and my power and my success by my ability to write my OWN story. And then rewrite it when I need to pivot. I can do anything.
So I have decided to rewrite the words I use to define myself. I have decided my story is something different.
I am intelligent. I am a good writer. I am weird. I am funny. I am gorgeous.
And I am an athlete.
I AM AN ATHLETE.
I will never play in the NBA. I will never step on to court one at the US Open.
But I can work out. I can train. I can define myself in new ways every time I go to work out.
I am strong. I sweat. My BODY is powerful. And I am so freaking athletic, you don’t even know.
I compete. I am a player.
Yes, I am a Queen. At my keyboard. But also on my bike. On my treadmill.
And so what if the only person I’m competing with is the me I was yesterday? Who cares if the only crowd that is gonna roar for me consists of my two kids who watch me take a Peloton class? LeBron probably wishes he was at my house being cheered on by my little girls. Cause they are fierce.
An athlete is in the game. An athlete tries. An athlete decides she can. Even if she falls. Even if she loses. Even if she wants to quit. Because she’s an athlete.
So. I’m an athlete.
I’m athletic.
I have to go. I have stuff to do. Just, you know, athletic stuff.
Hey, how are you? Me? Oh, I’m good. I’m an athlete now. A lot like LeBron. Serena. But…no big deal. Whatever.
Shonda Rhimes. Writer. Athlete.
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