athletes. I was becoming the warrior he had trained me to be. He taught me about aspects of myself that I never knew existed. He taught me to surrender to this unique power and helped me uncover a profound resilience and to have complete trust in my abilities. I knew he was responsible for my success in the sport, and I looked up to him. Dan taught me the value of being a good person. He showed me how to win and how to be respectful when I did. He was the greatest adult I knew, and together we would succeed in achieving my goals.
The relationship between coach and athlete is immensely important. The coach must unearth the strongest part of the individual without crushing it and convince the human body that it can achieve anything the mind asks of it. The coach must persuade the athlete that he or she is invincible in the face of obstacles and to be pure of heart while conquering them. Finding these skills in a coach was difficult, because even though there are great ones, there are also many bad ones.
I was not prepared for what was about to happen. On a random winter day in the gym, Dan sat us all down by the pommel horse for a discussion. I sat on top of the apparatus, in my need for the most attention, and he told us he had some bad news. My body stopped moving and I listened closely to his words. He said apologetically, “I have been coaching you guys for a long time now, and it is very hard for me to tell you this, but I got offered a new job coaching out West.” He paused for a moment, and I waited for him to say he was joking, but then he continued. “So I’ll be leaving here in a few weeks.”
After realizing that Dan was serious, I suddenly felt self-conscious about my choice of seating. I wished I hadn’t sat on the horse, higher than everyone else, because my eyes filled with tears, but there was no way I was going to cry in public. I felt sick and nauseated. I looked down at Seth, who began to cry, apparently unaware that young warriors are never supposed to let their guard down. I saw the tears in his eyes and felt his emotions, but I refused to let a single drop fall. I pulled the tears back into my eyes, letting my anger swallow them up.
As the meaning of Dan’s announcement sunk in, I became enraged. I was surprised the leather pommel horse I was sitting on didn’t catch fire from the intense heat coming off my body. Dan couldn’t leave us. I needed him! For the rest of practice that afternoon, all of Dan’s warriors were hushed and solemn, and I felt like I’d just been told my best friend had died.
When I got home from practice and told my mom, I started to cry. She told me she had already been informed of Dan’s decision and hadn’t wanted to tell me. She attempted to soften the blow by trying to convince me that the new job in California was a much better opportunity for him. She said the pay would be better and he would have more career-building opportunities. But I didn’t care about any of that. It was about me and my loss, not Dan’s good fortune.
Part of me died that night, and I was consumed by an overwhelming sadness. My whole world was demolished, and lightning struck, igniting a massive blaze and setting fire to my Mount Olympus. Zeus would never reign again, and I would never be an Olympian. I felt ripped off, angry, and betrayed. Dan was the only positive influence I’d had in my life, and I could not imagine living without him.
I grew obstinate and self-obsessed, unwilling to see how that move would benefit Dan’s life. In my rage, a small piece of darkness was born within me. Life continued, but I couldn’t see past the situation. The sun still rose in the morning, my mother continued to love my absent father, and life sped along the way it always had. I no longer felt support at home, and everything seemed to turn into an emotional war. All I kept thinking was How could Dan leave me behind?
That week at practice I thought if I worked harder, he would stay; that if I somehow became Olympic material he would change his mind. But it was already decided. Each day brought his departure closer, and the bright future I used to dream about became a threatening enemy. I felt weak because I couldn’t stop what the future would bring, and frail because I had become so affected by another human being. During practice I held my emotions in my chalky palms, commanding them to flow through me. I would use my wrath to push myself through difficult skills.
Finally, the day I had feared the most arrived, and Dan left. I did my best to ignore what was happening and convinced myself he would come back. I just continued in the same direction, athletically preparing myself for the future. Over time, I would write letters to Dan describing my progress. I never gave up hope that he would return.
In place of Dan we got a new coach who was older, and I instantly despised him. I attempted to place myself on the same level as him. I allowed him to coach me, but he wasn’t able to guide my artistry the way Dan had. His descriptions of how to perform a skill were unfamiliar to me, and, like a plant without sunlight, my gymnastics skills began to wither. I didn’t have confidence in his coaching abilities, and I began to hold back. This was odd to him because he knew of my history and abilities, and had watched me compete since I had started. He couldn’t understand why I was suddenly frightened when I executed simple skills. His teaching methods were the exact opposite of Dan’s; he used fear instead of explanation. Throughout my competing life, I often watched other coaches screaming at their gymnasts to get them to perform terrifying elements, but that approach never seemed to have a healthy outcome. I didn’t need any additional panic in my sport—it was frightening enough on its own. I hated my new coach and resented his presence.
Aggravation replaced the feeling of freedom I had come to rely on at the gym. Chris, the stronger teammate I didn’t get along with, went to another gym. Though I was happy I didn’t see him every day, I still had to compete against him, which made him more of an enemy. Seth, my best friend at the gym, quit gymnastics. I was devastated when he left.
I missed Dan. I wished his new job would not work out and that he would have to return to coach us. Distraught, I even checked out another gym, but quickly returned, yearning for the comfort of the familiar apparatuses I had started out with. Even though the equipment is the same in every gym, those particular pieces had become my allies. Feeling defeated, I went back to the new coach with all my shattered aspirations, but I never gave him the trust I had placed in Dan, and kept my power locked inside. It was not his to have, and he would have to beat it out of me to take it. In the end, I only sabotaged my own abilities.
I was still a competent competitor, but never the gymnast I could have been. My concentration had been broken, and the drive I once knew had dispersed. I stayed at the old gym for another year, slowly gaining confidence, but never accepting the new regime’s approach to athleticism.
One day I returned to the gym I had previously scouted out, and realized I had never given Olympia Gymnastics a chance. The coach, Antonio, was also friends with Dan, and they both had attended the same college. His voice was deep and voluminous, a baritone-like commanding sound, and his enthusiasm and temper shifted quickly from exhilaration to outrage. He coached champions and athletes I admired, but he reminded me of my father in his stubborn Italian ways. I think that familiar characteristic blocked our attempts at a solid relationship. But his team had many great aspiring, talented gymnasts, and I found a new family of friends who pushed each other to become better athletes.
Gymnastics was still my sanctuary as the energy at home became more and more gloomy and hopeless. My mother drifted further away from the woman she had been, and I, too, grew in a different direction, no longer able to abide by her rules. I discovered a powerful new vocabulary and outlook, born of hatred, melancholy, anger, and anguish.
Something was beginning to devour me, infecting every part of my life, and my insomnia only made it worse. Everything became black, like an eclipse blotting out the sun, and in a strange way I found myself drawn to it. I began to isolate in my room and daydream about death. I would try writing as a way to reconnect with my humanity, but my choice of adjectives only drew me closer to that darkness, forging a peculiar intimacy with it. The more agony I experienced, the more nightmarish my outpourings of literature became. My suffering had a purpose, and I became the translation for pain.
My mother was lost in her own sadness and couldn’t see the wrath within me. We both allowed the silence to grow, slowly building an impenetrable wall between mother and son. My safe space was writing alone in my bedroom, and hers was drinking alone in the living room. Neither of us could see what was approaching. I gradually realized what had been at the