Ten Seconds of Anxiety

If you've ever been an athlete, you'll know what I'm talking about. 

I'm a gymnast, a good one too. I won gold at the Canadian nationals and bronze at the Pan American championships last year. There's nothing more invigorating than standing on a podium, feeling proud of yourself and proud of what you represent. If it's a national event, I will be proud to represent my hometown. For an international, I'm pleased to show the competition that I'm from Canada. 

I'm strong, and I know what I'm doing when I start my routines but knowing this never stops me from having intense doubts about my abilities. It's performance anxiety that hinders me greatly. I worry about letting myself, my coaches and my parents down. I worry about tripping over my feet in front of the judges and crowd. Everyone feels this way sometimes for perhaps a job interview, a school presentation. But this feeling is different. Something about stepping out in front of a huge crowd filled with hundreds of people intensifies the anxiety until it feels like you might explode. All these people pick you apart; they judge the size of your body, your face, your skin - is it perfect or riddled with acne? You're on a pedestal, under a spotlight for everyone to see. Sometimes there are cameras for broadcasting the competition. It's hard enough to wear a bodysuit in front of a mirror where only I can see. Doing in front of an audience makes me sick. I'm practically naked, and because of this, the flaws of my movements get noticed easily. A misstep, an un-pointed toe, an arm bent at an awkward angle—a bra strap showing.   

No matter how good I get, how many competitions I go to, I still experience these fears. 

Right now, I am in line to compete my floor routine at the World Championships. I flew from Toronto to Antwerp to prove that I am the best in the world. 

On top of all my normal anxieties, I am worried about one other thing: this competition will determine if my career as a gymnast continues or ends. Worlds only happen once every two years, and I'm already 17; by the next Worlds, I'll be 19. Usually, gymnasts retire at my age. Although, if I do well and place high, I will be encouraged to continue, to seek further validation that I'm worth it. 

I'm standing in front of the dark curtain, palms sweaty. I repeatedly cover my hands and feet with white chalk to not lose my grip when I need it most. My coaches, Carl and Savannah, are beside me. 

"Ready?" asks Carl, "you're up soon." 

I mumble a response, not knowing if I said yes or no. 

Per tradition, Carl and Savannah kiss me on the top of my hair-sprayed head and give me a supportive pat on the back. They know, just like me, that these next ten seconds will potentially make or break my performance. If I don't walk out there confidently, the judges will automatically assume that I'm an amateur. My score has always been lower when I distrust myself. 

The countdown begins. 

10 

"And now, all the way from Toronto, Canada, performing her floor routine, is Lou Vaughn!" The announcer, a deep-voiced man, wakes up the crowd. He's at all the internationals. All the athletes know him, even the crowd. They remember his humour and the way he gets them going, excited for the long day of watching. It's always strange to hear him calling my name. It sounds foreign to my ears; I almost don't recognize it. Savannah gives me a slight push, pulling me from this trance. 

9 

The curtains draw open the darkness of the stuffy hallway where I wait, and the auditorium is revealed to me in full. A light breeze tickles my skin, and suddenly I'm freezing. My teeth chatter slightly. Stop, this is not the time, I think to myself. 

8 

It's now or never. I got this. Lift your chin, Lou, smile big. I take a deep breath and fill my lungs with the chalky air of the building. 

7

I take my first steps up the stairs and onto the edge of the competition floor. I walk around the floor towards my starting spot. There is a large screen above me, and I see my picture and statistics from the corner of my eye. I don't have time to contemplate my face's complete awkwardness, but it reminds me of my passport photo.  

6

In front of me sits the judges' panel. There are 6 of them in total: two judges record the difficulty of the skills I perform, two judges score the artistry of the way I dance and move my body, and the final two judges take note of how I execute each skill. They look tough, their faces painted with scowls and their arms crossed.  

5 

Above me are the spectators' bobbing heads, inching to get a better look at my sparkling bodysuit. My parents and teammates are among them somewhere. I don't dare look up and try to locate them. If I do this, I'll get distracted and might even trip, making a fool of myself.  

The crowd's cheering sounds muffled as if I am underwater. I feel muggy, but I keep my walk onto the floor as powerful and dominant as possible. You're here to prove your worth, Lou. 

4

I make my way into the center of the floor, where my routine begins. I bow to the judges. Only one smiles at me, reassuringly. Of course, it was her; she's the only Canadian judge. I know to keep eye contact with her throughout the three minutes of my performance. Her familiar face will help me remain balanced.  

3

 As I bend and fold into my starting position, I remind myself of all the practice I've done. I know this routine better than the back of my hand. I've gone through each move with my eyes open and closed. This is easy. I've run through each separate part of this performance in my mind. The team's sports psychologist always says that imagining the skills and doing the skills wake up the same part of the brain. I manifest a perfect routine - a perfect score of 10 in each category. 

My heart is pounding loud in my chest cavity; my entire body pulses to its rhythm. The crowd is now silent, and I'm sure if they were close enough, they'd be able to hear my heartbeat echoing. I feel my hands aching to shake as I wait for the beep that allows my start. If I move before the sound, the judges will deduct my score immediately. 

I have my back to them, so I quickly let my face go slack to take a proper breath. I'm balancing on my left hand, with my knees digging into the blue floor's soft carpet, denting it. My right arm reaches over my back and towards the front. Although I feel shivers growing throughout my body, I don't let it show.  

2 

 Finally, I let my head tilt back. I close my eyes and let a small closed smile play across my reddened face. I feel the heat stirring and rising in my already rosy cheeks. The chalk on my hands and feet has melted, but I know how to grip and move in a way that will not let me fall.

1

The sound that cues my start blares, ripping apart the silence of the spectators' held breaths. It is loud enough to drown out the beating of my heart and it fills me with new confidence. I roll sideways and flash the judges with my white smile.