God, I love the Olympics. I probably cry watching the Olympics more than I do watching sappy movies. Being real, I don’t watch a ton of sappy movies because I don’t like being emotionally manipulated, which is what I feel like those movies do. I just don’t need that. 

The Olympics aren’t manipulative. They seem pure. I know there are some problematic elements of the Olympics – corruption among IOC officials and so on – but I have to believe that the athletes are there to achieve at the highest level in their sport. Mostly, my tears are for seeing people put forth their very best effort and win. I am inspired by the incredible athletes and feel like I know a tiny bit of the sacrifice they made to achieve their goals. I cry every time I watch Miracle. And Hoosiers. And those are just movies! The real thing is so much better!

A small part of me, however, sheds some tears because I never got to feel that myself. Here’s the problem with athletics at a high level: “enough” does not exist. Sometimes goals aren’t clear, when aspirations are so high and “more” and “the next thing” are always out there. Even Olympic Gold Medal winners have to come to terms with the ends of their own careers. That obviously isn’t me, but even those who achieve at the highest level don’t always feel “done” when they step away.

When I graduated from college, I wanted to continue training. The next step would’ve been to pick up and move to New Jersey, where the US national rowing team trained, and try to make the team there. I thought about it for a long time and made the rational decision rather than the emotional decision, and I didn’t go. I knew I’d be able to handle the physical challenges, but I felt certain I wouldn’t handle the mental ones well. I went to grad school, and thus ended my competitive rowing career. It was anticlimactic, and I tried not to dwell on it, which meant I pushed it down and never dealt with it. I’m dealing with it now, my decision to turn away from one path and its set of choices and turn toward another path. Go read that Robert Frost poem. It’s not necessarily a positive ending. 

Here’s the thing: I’m totally content with where my life has gone and is going. That doesn’t mean there isn’t a tiny voice that asks, “What if?” whenever I think of my stunted rowing career. I chose not to go that route for a lot of reasons, all of which I still feel are smart and rational, but there’s a piece of me that loves spontaneity and romance and underdog stories. I picture myself at that divergence in the woods of my past, and I try to mentally travel down that other path. The series of events in a future that could never occur is obviously unknowable, but the short story is that my life would’ve most likely turned out dramatically different. 

There may have been short term glory for me in a little known, niche sport, though even that was obviously not a guarantee. I could’ve gotten injured or just flamed out spectacularly before accomplishing anything of note. But this life I have created, this family I have helped create – this is what I chose. I didn’t know this was what I was choosing when I was 23, but all of my small choices have led me here. 

I’m finally processing all of these events and feelings of my past athletic endeavors, and maybe next Olympics, I’ll be able to let go of the sense of longing, and only shed tears of joy.