I was not, by nature, an athletically inclined kid. I was instead the kid who got unreasonably jazzed about the summer reading list to the point that I would finish all the assigned books by the end of June, thereby being incapable of thoughtfully discussing the books come the beginning of September. That put me on par with all the kids who had only read the first 3 chapters. It was a great disguise for looking normal. I could not, however, carry that disguise into gym class. For example, the balance beam was, for me, a form of torture. “Don’t look down!” my peers helpfully cheered. Then what the hell am I supposed to look at? I couldn’t make it more than a step or two, paralyzed with fear, probably crying. In the Kindergarten gymnastics show for parents, I was relegated to doing the log roll on the mat. I still rolled off unevenly. My gym teachers, they had precious little patience for developing my obvious potential.
Equally terrifying for me was anything that required upper body strength and a bar. Presidential Physical Fitness Test? No, thanks. “Just do one pull-up!” my peers helpfully cheered. How? I couldn’t even engage whatever body parts that was supposed to require. No amount of success on the sit-and-reach could make up for the big 0 in the pull-up category. And that brings me to the playground horror known as the monkey bars. While all the other kids could go back and forth on the hot metal rungs, upside down, one-handed, gliding across like, well, monkeys, I could barely make it more than a few rungs. Sweaty palms and lack of faith in my ability to let go to grab the next one without plummeting to the ground, I held up the whole line of kids waiting to go. I would start, and then, as predicted, I would plummet to the ground. The last time I tried, in third grade, I sprained my ankle. And so, I vowed never to set foot (hand?) on that particular piece of equipment ever again. And I didn’t. I had precious little patience for developing my own obvious potential.
Fast forward thirty years or so, and there I was at the park with my kids. Playgrounds had become plastic and colorful, filled with bridges and tunnels and all sorts of other exciting features that were, more often than not, under a tree. Progress! And yet, there stood the monkey bars, having retained their importance in childhood development along with the slide and the swings. The big difference now? I was tall enough that falling to the ground was about a 3” affair. And yet? I still couldn’t do it. I could not talk myself into doing more than just hanging on the first rung.
Both my kids could do it, back and forth, hanging upside down, one-handed, gliding across like monkeys. Why couldn’t I? Finally, after months of thinking about it, I vowed to try. I vowed to get over my stupid fear of the stupid monkey bars. I hung, I let go with one hand, and I successfully made it to the next rung. And then I dropped, because no one told me when I was 8 that a wedding ring hurts on the monkey bars. Having learned this important lesson, I kept trying. Within a surprisingly short amount of time, I made it all the way across. I did that many times! And then, I even did it a couple of times on the bigger set that WAS out in the hot sun. And now? I don’t fear the monkey bars anymore. This isn’t a story about me becoming the top elite monkey bars athlete of Texas. I don’t compete in monkey bars relays, and now that my kids are older, I don’t even go to the playground anymore.
What I do know is that all of us carry around stories about what happened in the past, and we let those stories dictate the now. If you couldn’t do it before, who says you can’t do it today? If you were limited in skill before, who says you can’t work on that now? The past is firmly in the past. Leave it. Acknowledge your potential, even if it isn’t obvious, and take the time to develop it. See what you are capable of today. I bet you will surprise yourself.