Bye, Felicia

Working to Silence My Inner Evil Workout Partner.

snatching this week

I just took a deep breath because I’m about to do some soul searching.

First, let me take a moment to explain why I feel the need to write this down today.

A few weeks back, I decided I wanted to push myself out of my comfort zone (again) and hire an online weightlifting coach who works particularly with master’s (translation: older) athletes. My current coach is fantastic, from a technical standpoint, but I knew I was missing something. I had questions and concerns directly related to my age (I turn 49 in a few short weeks), and I was struggling with some mindset issues.

Frankly, I was losing the desire to push myself, and I didn’t like it. Something felt off.

So, I reached out to a coach I’ve been following online, and I couldn’t be happier with that choice! He is challenging me in new ways, and not only do I feel like I’m making progress with my lifts again, but my passion for the sport is returning. I see my potential more clearly than I ever have.

Yesterday, we had a call to discuss my “inner evil workout partner,” whom I recently named Felicia. (Yes, I specifically named her Felicia so I could say, ‘Bye Felicia.’)

Felicia is a mean girl through and through. She is constantly in my head whispering, ‘Who do you think you are? You’re not an athlete. I mean, who are you kidding? Why are you even trying? Everyone knows you suck at this. You don’t belong here.’ She’s relentless, too, always worried about what people might think, and terrified of being seen as lazy or weak. For her, more is always better.

To Felicia, I will always be a chubby, awkward little girl with two left feet. The girl who couldn’t even make her high school softball team.

And there it is.

On yesterday’s call, my coach asked if I could identify where the idea that I’m not an athlete might have come from. These two memories immediately came to mind.

“Well, You’re Not a Runner, Are You?”

I don’t remember the details, but I sure do remember the feeling. After running in an elementary school gym class, my teacher said, “Well, you’re not a runner, are you? It’s like you have two left feet.”

I absorbed those words like the young sponge I was at seven or eight years old.

“Sorry, You Didn’t Make the Team”

The next memory that surfaced was from high school. My friend and I decided to try out for the softball team. It was my freshman year, and I was putting myself out there, trying new things, figuring out who I was.

Needless to say, I didn’t make the team—confirmation that I didn’t belong in the world of athletes.

Felicia was born in those early impressionable years of my life, and she grew stronger as I aged. Her whispers became screams about how I should hate my body and hide it as much as possible.

Interestingly, an old friend recently reached out to share some old photos of me, and in every single one I was wearing ginormous, oversized sweatshirts. I immediately noticed and remembered the security those baggy clothes brought me. Felicia made sure I never felt comfortable in my own skin. Ever.

I’ve worked hard to ignore this inner voice over the years, and I’ve kept it at bay for the most part, but there are still whispers and echoes that resurface now and then. Especially on days when things don’t go quite as planned. If I’m feeling down or out of sorts, that’s when Felicia likes to make her presence known. That’s when she reminds me: 'You’re just a chubby, awkward little girl with two left feet. You have no business calling yourself an athlete.'

I think my coach’s idea of giving her a name and analyzing her roots is a powerful one. My inner dialogue can change. I want it to change. It’s time to say, “Bye, Felicia.”

Typing and then rereading this has brought a tear to my eye. Normally I would hold back the cry and tell myself, “You’re being ridiculous.” But today I’m taking my coach’s advice and breathing through it. For me to truly get rid of Felicia, I need to get her out of my head. Not keep her in there to stew and resurface.

I took a deep breath starting this post. Now I’m taking another. But this time, it feels relieving, not overwhelming.

That’s progress, and that’s all I’m after these days.