The Unlearning Is Still Ungoing

I used to think unlearning would feel like a clean break. Like snapping a stick in half and walking away. But it’s not like that. At all.

Unlearning is choosing again. And again. And again.

It’s waking up, having the same thought you’ve had for decades, and not letting it win.

Some days, I win. Some days, the voice does.

If I could unlearn anything from being an elite athlete, it wouldn’t just be the way I treated my body. It would be the way I ignored it.

The way I made pain normal.

The way I wore exhaustion like a badge.

The way I thought perfection was the only option, and anything less meant I was failing.

That stuff gets baked into you.

Pain tolerance gets praised.

Perfectionism gets labeled “standards.”

Until it breaks you.

And it did.

I wish I could unlearn the guilt, too.

The part of me that still, even now, has to quiet the urge to earn my meals. I don’t live in that space anymore at least not every day but I’d be lying if I said I never relapse. Little moments where I think, “You haven’t moved enough today. Do you really deserve that?” And it’s not about health. It’s not about fitness. It’s about punishment.

It’s about shame disguised as discipline.

And the kicker? That exact mindset—the toxic one—gets applauded in sports.

It’s called grit.

It’s called commitment.

It wins awards.

But I know what it really is.

It’s the scared, exhausted version of me trying to feel in control.

And I’m done letting that version drive.

Now, as a coach, I break the cycle by not talking about my athletes’ bodies.

Not in the way it was done to me.

For decades, I was either praised or picked apart based on how I looked, weighed, and performed.

I find zero value in that now.

And when I hear others talking about bodies—their own or someone else’s—I call it out or shut it down. I’m still unlearning. And it’s exhausting sometimes.

But it’s worth it. I also wish I could unlearn the way people clapped for me while I was crumbling.

When my mom died, no one said, “Take a breath. Grieve.”

They said, “Damn, you’re still training? You’re a beast.” I was dying inside.

But instead of helping, they profited off it.

Used my pain as a storyline.

Acted like they built me.

But they didn’t.

My mom built me.

She taught me what real strength looks like—not just toughness, but softness too.

And Alex? She held me up in ways no one saw. She made space for the chaos. For the healing.

So, no, I didn’t build myself. But I protected what they helped me build. I’m still unlearning, still showing up, and still trying to protect this next generation from the things I wasn’t protected from.

Some days, the voice gets quieter.

Some days, it doesn’t.

But I’m not chasing applause anymore.

I’m chasing freedom.

For me.

For my daughter.

For the ones who come next.

And I’ll keep doing that work, so maybe they won’t have to.

🃏