This is NOT a Competition

I repeat: THIS IS NOT A COMPETITION. This is me trying to better myself as I set goals and destroy them. You don’t see it that way, and that’s alright.

You see it as a girl who is starting the EMOM run a little earlier than every minute on the minute and you make a comment about it. You see slow. You see a girl struggling up the incline of the hill and make a comment about it. You see lazy. You see a girl who may not get both feet across the line every single time and you make a comment about it. You see cheater.

These are all ok things to see, but you are not seeing the real truth behind these things.

I am the girl starting the EMOM run a little earlier than every minute on the minute because I still want to do the full distance, but I need a little bit more recovery before I can move on to the second movement. I see motivation. I am the girl struggling up the incline of the hill because I have a spasm that I’m dealing with and shin pain is starting to set in. I see strength. I see a girl who tries to get both feet across the line every single time, but might miss once or twice because of the sweat coming from … everywhere, really. I see determination.

Your comments didn’t hurt my feelings or upset me, but you also need to take a look at your workout versus mine. First, I am hang power cleaning DOUBLE the weight that you are. Second, I am doing my best version of strict push-ups. You are doing “girl pushups” – stupid to call it that. Pushups are damn hard. And finally, I saw that multiple reps that you didn’t do. I made no comments. I actually told you “nice work” multiple times, because this is hard.

I don’t care about what work you do, what weight you use, or if you cheat the rep schemes. That is all on you. But just know that unless we are both doing prescribed weight and have agreed that we’re both trying to see who can do this the best, I’m not trying to win. I really don’t care. It’s an EMOM. You and I are both going to finish at the exact same time.

This it not a competition. I’m just proud to show up, sweat, go home, cuddle with my dogs and eat carbs.




WODing in the Restroom

It is about that time of the year, when I can sweat by just looking at the weights. 80 degrees and up. I don’t even have to lift a 1 lb plate for my body to start leaking liquid awesome. Ugh. It’s hot. I’m not embarrassed about it anymore like I used to be. The first time the issue was addressed, my coach yelled at me:

“WHY ARE YOU SWEATING?! We haven’t even done anything.”

And he was right. I literally had grabbed my measly bar and was just standing there, waiting to go through the movements of the strength. #NewbieAtTheBox. My simple response was to not say anything. Maybe it was because I was carrying around a shit ton of extra body weight. Maybe it was because I was ridiculously out of shape. Maybe it was because all eyes were on me, with my pansy weight, and you just yelled at me.

I use to make a lot of jokes about taking my workout in to the restroom – the only part of our box that has air conditioning. People tend to laugh when I make the joke, but I’m not kidding. Get a rower in there and I’m all set. Which sounds better – black mat floor or cold hard concrete? Concrete for the win. So much cooler.

I have since figured out that my sweaty issues have nothing to do with any of this. I, apparently, just like to sweat. A lot. Cold, warm, hot, super hot, surface of the sun – it doesn’t matter. It just starts pouring. I’m also not ashamed of it anymore. It’s a sign of the work that I put in. I don’t cheat. I don’t cut corners. I go and do the work. #ScaledAF sometimes, but I do the work. The workout may have ended 20 minutes ago and I still may be sitting on the bench sweating, but I really don’t care.

The sweaty brow. The boob sweat. The line on my back slowly creepin’ down to my pants. It is all a sign of where I’ve been and where I am going. It’s the disgusting reminder that I’m better right now than what I was 20 minutes ago. I made it through something that – let’s be honest, I read and then laughed at – seemed impossible. I am killing it. Every. Single. Day.


– E