Can you feel the femininity dripping off me?

Promise, I wasn’t thinking about anything other than how much I appreciated my body here.

Today’s post is one I wrote in 2012 for Skirt Sports; they were doing a series about what a feminine athlete looks like.  I’m reposting it because I’m headed to Skirt Sports HQ in Boulder this Wednesday, the 15th, to give a talk—and chat—about how to be a badass mother runner. Want to join? Here is the information. 

For much of my childhood—and by childhood, I mean until I was old enough to vote—I was like a newborn foal. Unsure of my gangly limbs, I wasn’t entirely clear how to move my whole body forward without ending up face-first in the grass.

I was just a few ligaments beyond total spaghetti for arms and legs, but my taller-than-average body was freakishly strong. I hugged my second-grade buddies on the playground until they gasped that their ribs were going to break. The principal complimented my firm handshake when I was in the fourth grade. The only time I was picked first in gym class was when we played “Red Rover”; the captains knew my grip rivaled SuperGlue.

Unfortunately, as the Rolling Stones taught me in eighth grade, you can’t always have what you want. I didn’t want to be the tall, strong one. I wanted to look like the girls in Seventeen magazine, who looked so perfect and desirable in their lavender taffeta prom dresses. I wanted to be able throw myself up into a perfect handstand and hold it, like my gymnastics friends could. I wanted to feel compact and feminine, and I projected that yearning with every slouched step I took.

Then I picked up an oar in college. As blisters formed on my hands as I learned to row, I didn’t hate my strength so much. Finally, my muscles weren’t something that made me the exception; cut calves and bulging biceps and pride in what your muscles could do was the rule in our boat. As my quads grew with every stroke, so did my belief in myself. Yep, I was the 6’3” girl who could probably take you down, and damn if I wasn’t a little cocky—a totally novel feeling for me—as I walked around regattas.

Here’s the thing I learned: as sports hone your quads and biceps and lats, they also flex your confidence. As you push through physical barriers, you start to see yourself in ways that weren’t conceivable before. Your body, previously an object that was either good (when it conformed to societal expectations) or bad (when it didn’t) is so much more complex now. As you move, strive, push, hurt, win and lose, your body becomes a vehicle for your pride, spirit, ambition, humility, and purpose. I learned that as an athlete, you celebrate your body much more than you judge it. You revel in its might, you tend to its weaknesses, you dwell much less than you used to on its flaws.

The beauty of the transformation from hoping-I-was-something-different to complete acceptance is that your mentality can never go back to the former. These days when I’m longing for the 39-year-old’s version of a taffeta prom dress, I know that I just need to move. As soon as I break a sweat, I stop wishing for something I’m not and appreciate all the strength I have.