This article was written for and originally posted on FreestyleConnection. It is a collection of my thought on what it means and take to be an "athlete", the liver of an athletic life. Photos courtesy of FreestyleConnection

I don't CrossFit. I don't power lift. I don't Olympic lift. I don't do gymnastics. I don't cycle. I don't hike. I don't swim. I don't climb. I don't play team sports. And I certainly don't run, not at all. I made these affirmations at various points in my life, leading to a lifestyle that was not active, not athletic. As opportunities came up I simply chose not to participate. Each time I opted out, the divide between me and an active life expanded, and as I grew older I found myself opting out more and more. It's not that I didn't want to participate. I liked athletics and I knew the benefits. I just always had a great reason not to engage and I'm not alone. Many of us tell ourselves seemingly good reasons why we can't participate: we're out of shape, don't know how, or can't make the time. Our back/knee/shoulder [insert body part] hurts. The list goes on. I had the best excuse ever: At the age of eight I was struck by a semi-truck and my leg was mangled almost beyond recognition. I had a physical disability.

My leg is a mess. Half my knee is gone, I'm missing critical muscles, some of my major nerves don't work, and my bones are twisted and deformed from abnormal growth. My leg is skinny, crooked, two inches shorter, covered in scar tissue, has joints that bend at weird angles, and requires the constant support of a foot-to-hip brace. Nothing about my leg says athlete. Despite my condition, I held out hope that one day I could walk into a gym or onto a court and I would not be disabled or at least not SO disabled. A day where I would be "ready" to participate. After my initial recovery from the accident the doctors projected, "Technology is advancing all the time. In five or ten years there could be a new surgery/implant/orthotic that will restore your ability". The notion was comforting. A nice mental escape from the reality of the obliterated leg that lay in front of me. I could hold out for a time in the future when my condition could be “fixed”. It seemed plausible, I was young and my life seemed to stretch out to an unending horizon. So I directed my energy into this idea. I sat on the sidelines and I waited. However as the years passed and the seemly infinite became finite, my faith in this proposition began to erode.

At the age of 30 that hope finally died. After more than a decade since my last major check-up, I went to visit the best orthopedic surgeons and orthotists in California. During the appointments, the message was hauntingly familiar, "There is nothing more that we can do for you now, but the next five to ten years looks promising for development, come back and see us then!" Twenty-two years had past and no solution had been delivered to me. Furthermore, I now had no reason to believe the next two decades would yield any different.

So there I was, on the edge of a chasm between the life I wanted and the life I had. I had stared at this gap my entire life, but now I was seeing it clearly for the first time. I finally saw the realities that I should have internalized a long time ago: there was no quick fix and there never would be. There is only today and only the body I have left. I now looked down at my mangled limb with the understanding that it was here to stay. It wasn't an external obstacle, it was part of me. If I was ever going to participate, it was coming along for the ride. No more hoping and waiting. My leg and I were going to do this together. Time to stop expecting the world to deliver a solution. Time to take my well-being into my own hands. Time to take one step forward into the gap.

The first step I took was into San Francisco CrossFit. I stepped in with a serious physical disability, a poorly functioning leg brace, a major body image issue, and no plan beyond showing up. A great list of reasons why I should have turned around and walked right back out the door. But this time, I didn't let these issues prevent me from participating. I now recognized that these issues only had the potential to define HOW I participated, but not IF I participated. The decision to participate was completely up to me. It was also up to me to come back the following day, and I did, then the day after that, and so on.

Over the following months and years I went from not being able to air squat, to squatting 300 pounds. From not being able to run, to running an 11 mile race. From never hiking, to summiting a 16,000 foot mountain. From being ashamed to wear shorts, to not giving it a second though. One by one I addressed my list of issues. As I gained momentum, the focus on my own well-being, learning and lifestyle became more important than all the bullshit I dragged through the door with me on day one.

Now looking back, I can see the exact point at which I became an athlete. It was not after I hit a certain threshold of ability, the day I became in-shape, or the day I first competed. It was the day I made the decision to participate. The moment I took my first step into the gap. It turns out that the gap to the athletic life is only one step wide. The athletic life is a state of being. It's about expectation and commitment. The expectation is that we can get more from our bodies tomorrow than we did today: more functionality, more utility, more capacity, and less pain. The commitment is to work towards that expectation. It has nothing to do with what you bring to the table, it's the decision that you belong at the table. You can be uncoordinated and become an athlete. You can be out-of-shape and become an athlete. You can have a permanent injury and become an athlete. You can be disabled and become athlete. It comes down to a simple choice: to participate or not. You are ready. You have always been ready. Now take that first step and just keep moving your feet. Welcome to the club. 

Now, I CrossFit. I power lift. I Olympic lift. I do gymnastics. I cycle. I hike. I swim. I climb. I play team sports. I run (I hate it, but I do it). I play tennis. I snowboard. I backpack. I trapeze. I TRX. I parkour. I ultimate frisbee... Now, I'll pretty much do anything because I am an athlete.

It's Sunday 9am in La Jolla, California and I'm naked in public for the first time in my life. I'm sitting on a folding chair surrounded by a few thousand others who have traveled here to occupy the nicely manicured park for the day. An energy, unnatural for this early in the morning, emanates from the mass. The buzzing crowd and brightly colored temporary structures create a surreal feel that complements the strange level of comfort I am experiencing. Athletes move hurriedly to specific destinations. Spectators seem to rush around to nowhere in particular. I simply sit, my stare far-off, my race done. My gaze transitions back into the foreground, the shaved head of a competitor takes focus directly in front of me. We are in mid-conversation, his rapid speech aligned with the pitch of the commotion. Like me, he has just completed the one mile open water swim of the Challenged Athletes Foundation San Diego Triathlon. A swim that only one month ago I had no idea how I would complete. With his speedy monologue seemingly only near it's midpoint, I subconsciously give myself permission to drift off again. I look down at the white towel wrapped around my waist. It's only long enough to cover down to around my knees. I gaze further down, past the towel, to my deformed right leg. I see it all in the morning sun. The awkward angle, the abnormal rotation, the child-like girth, the wholesale vacancy of standard anatomical reference points. I know these hallmarks well. I have stared at them for the last twenty-five years. My stare deepens, past the physical damage to the emotional scaring that lies beneath. Hopelessness. Embarrassment. Inadequacy. Shame. A familiar urge begins welling within to grab for another towel and cover up my limb. However, for the first time in my life, I don't. I simply continue to stare. Then, spell broken, I look up and reengage in the conversation.

In 1989, at the age of eight, my body and a twenty ton semi-truck attempted to occupy the same space. Marred from that day forward, I became an expert at hiding the resulting damage. It started small. I stopped wearing shorts. I only bought pants that were baggy enough to hide the abnormal contour of my leg. I wouldn't change clothes in front of others. For most of my life this self-preservation was seemingly superficial, a minor inconvenience, an everyday accommodation. However in the last few years I began to realize how deep the charade had progressed. I noticed how more and more I was tactically managing the environments I was exposing myself to. Heeding an anxious inner voice to avoid potentially uncomfortable situations. Hot tubbing? Nope, everyone will see my awkward leg on the way to the tub. Pick-up basketball? I can wear track pants but I don't want people to see me limping around the court. Beach? Okay, but I will wear pants and not go in the water. Every activity had to first pass this screen. I'd attempted to banish my deformity to an unscalable tower, behind a locked gate, in a sealed box, convinced the imprisonment would nullify it's impact on the rest of my life. However in doing so I successfully accomplished the opposite. I inserted my fear into a position of maximum effect; I had granted it first veto power over every decision in my life. Regardless of the merit of the experience, fear now stood as the unyielding judge, jury and executioner. What I'd attempted to relegate to a corner now held court over the rest of my faculties. 

This is an experiment. Time will tell if I can actually think of enough useful comments to warrant a blog.

To make things easy on myself, my first post is a reprint of a letter that I wrote to the owners San Francisco Crossfit, Kelly and Juliet Starrett thanking them for their support over the years. This letter was originally intended for their eyes only however they found the letter interesting enough to ask me for permission to post it. If it's good enough for their audience, then it's probably good enough as my first entry. Enjoy.