The Rope

I remember it so vividly. The long thick woven rope ominously hanging from the middle school gymnasium ceiling. The tightly wound fibers were typically found tied back against the painted cinder block wall. However, occasionally I would walk into the gym during my allotted physical fitness block and that damn rope would be dangling straight down in the center of the gym. With the ominous sight of the rope swaying over the matted gym floor, my heart would sink. It told me it was fitness test day, a day I was destined to fail.

I still recall sitting on the wooden bleachers among my peers while awaiting my turn at the rope. Watching one classmate after another be called and effortlessly pull themselves from the knot at the base while Mr. PE kept it steady: coaching from below. Now, I am sure there were other students with sweaty palms alongside me who had dreaded this day just as much as I did. But I didn’t notice them. However, I did take note of all those before me who with monkey-like agility, found their way up the rope to the targeted black electrical tape. That looming black ring of tape marking the spot of “passing” the test. My mind darted from one excuse to another in search of a legitimate reason I could give the teacher to not even give that rope a try. All falling short. I began accepting my fate and acknowledging the rope climbing ability was beyond me. My arms were too weak. I was too fat (another blog post in itself). I am not athletic enough. I am going to fail so why even try?

When my turn was finally called, I made my way over to the foot of the rope. My eyes followed the twisted threads up to the rafters in the ceiling. The knot swung slightly from left to right from the student before me. Mr. PE steadies the rope  and nods  to me signaling me to go; I suspect the doubt in his mind as he forces an encouraging smile. “You can do it”. I did not believe him. I knew I couldn’t. I believed in every ounce of my soul that there was no way in the freaking world I would be able to pull myself up. But I had to do something. I had to get it over with in order to return to the safety of the wooden bleachers behind me. I grabbed hold of the rope with my small hands. One on top of the other. I looked up. I looked over at the bleachers. I looked up again. I took I big breath and … I jumped. Yup, I tried to jump from the gymnasium floor as high as I could while simultaneously attempting to wrap my legs around the rope’s base. I missed completely. My feet landed in a thump on the cushion of the tumble mat below. My hands still clung to the rope, just slightly above where I had originally grabbed it. And I was done with the rope.

The other night, my dad recalled an incident with said “Mr. PE” in which I accused him of grabbing me. I do not remember this incident, but I do remember the annoyance in my lack of physical abilities in his class. I can clearly see that disappointment in his eyes, even though I can no longer match the eyes to a face. “I always hated gym class” I replied to my dad and that struck me as funny. Physical fitness is a constant in my life now, but at one time I hated everything about it. I consider myself competitive now, not necessarily with others but with my own ability. Yet, there was a time in my life when I doubted my ability to such an extent, I didn’t even attempt to achieve.

Honestly, this went far beyond that ominous massive rope; if there was the option of walking instead of running around the track, I took it. If we were forced to run, I accepted my fate as the last one to cross the finish line. I was a member of a championship softball team through my adolescence (man, that team rocked the 80s with our green homerun M&M’s and our bright colored scrunchies). As amazing as that group of girls were at the sport, I must admit my place on the team was as far from the star player as possible. I was the small girl who squatted as low as possible to achieve a walk (I am not sure I ever connected with the ball). This behavior was encouraged by my coach at the time (I think I may need to write a post about bad coaches/teachers).

In addition to my guaranteed walk on the score card, I was also in charge of bringing those homerun M&M’s from my dad’s grocery store along with an assortment of Bubilicious. The girls were amazing and like big sisters to me, but it was not for my athletic prowess on the field. Years later, I would join a softball league while working for Disney and discover not only did I have solid accuracy when I allowed a pitch to get to me, but I was fast around the bases. All those years of youth sports when I allowed myself to take the easier route. All those times I excepted defeat in the wake of an obstacle. Demoting myself to candy girl and walking the bases when I could have taken my own glory after munching down on those miraculous green M&M’s. The only thing different from that Erika to the Erika of today is confidence. Somewhere from then to now, I started trying. I began to believe I could in fact do something if I not only tried but believed in my ability to do so.

Challenges come in many different sizes and shapes. They look different from one person to another. They can be physical, emotional, or mental mountains we must climb to achieve the greatness we hold within. We can’t jump over the mountains (just like I couldn’t jump to the looming black line on the rope). We need to be systematic in our approach and patient with the process. Accepting the fallbacks and flexible for the detours. However, with persistence in believing in our own ability, there is no way we can fail.

When my daughter Malia was a young child, she had a fear of entering a room full of people. It didn’t matter who these people were or how many times in her life she had seen them, if the room was full; she froze. Literally, she stopped in her tracks with eyes as big as saucers. I could feel the fear seeping out of her pores and coaxing did little to help the situation. Initially, I would find a way to ease her into the room. Eventually, I learned to always arrive early. This is a girl who is known for performing. A girl who gets up in front of large crowds and sings the National Anthem acapella into a microphone during community ceremonies. A girl who has performed lead roles in school and recreational shows since she was 8. However, put her in a situation where she walks into a room full of others and the notion of how she will draw attention to herself by doing so… she is done. At times, she just cannot do it at all. This is her rope, her obstacle she needs to overcome. And she is learning, but there are days when that 3-year-old girl with the big-round-deer-in-headlights eyes shows up in her 15-year-old body.

I do not always remember the little girl is still in there and her reaction to social situations shocks me. There have been many occasions when I have failed to recognize her struggles. My own eyes and words portraying frustration and annoyance in her lack of interaction. Instead, I see her through the eyes of others – she looks disconnected, unengaged, and even rude during casual conversation at social events. Externally, Malia is doing the best she can however internally she is counting down the minutes for it to be over so she can move on to her comfort zone. From her perspective, all she sees around her are people who can easily interact with one another, and she is left wondering why it is so hard for her.

Yesterday, on a rare ride home from rehearsal with just the 2 of us in the car we discussed this. She described how walking into a gathering and looking at the whole room scared her. How the sea of faces overwhelms her, she finds herself lost and unable to manage her emotions. Even in the comfort of her own extended family, it is just too much for her to handle and in turn, she shuts down. She desperately wants to escape the awkwardness and can only focus on when she will be able to flee the situation entirely.

All at once, I got it. I understood by shutting down she is attempting to manage her discomfort until it was all over. I also recognized that my coaxing and impatience was not what she needs in those moments of despair.

We spent the rest of the car ride discussing methods to successfully navigate the situations that make her uncomfortable. Breaking down the gathering to focus on someone she felt most at ease approaching. We went over generic conversation starters she could use to keep her in her comfort zone. I reminded her how arriving early helped her as a young child. That being there first made it less about her going up and talking to someone as it was someone coming up to her to initiate the conversation. We discussed how to break down a social situation one small step at a time to keep the overwhelming anxiety at bay.

Not only did this conversation serve to provide social cues for my teen, but it was also a gentle reminder to myself. The process is scary. Finding a way to pace yourself up the rope or ladder to a goal seems tedious as opposed to jumping as far as you can go and accepting your fate. But we all know how that worked out for me before.

Honestly, I haven’t faced that damn rope climb since middle school. Not in the physical aspect at least. However, metaphorically, I face that rope climb daily. Looking ahead to my future and the expanse of work it will take to get there is intimidating. I often find myself wondering, how I can get it over with? How can I just get it done to get it done? However, deep down I know when I take a tactical approach to reach whatever line I have drawn for myself, I am more likely to achieve and less likely to be forced into an accepted fate. Taking it one hand over the other and one moment at a time is the only way to make your way to the top and achieve the unimaginable. And deep down, isn’t that what we all want?

We all have a rope we need to face and a line we want to cross but we must do so in our own methodical way. Face your obstacles while accepting your misgivings. Just keep climbing, friends.