Have you ever defied what you knew was right out of fear of being wrong? Have you ever so underestimated yourself that you blew a tremendous opportunity? If so, this is for you.

When I was around 10-years-old, I competed in the California State Baton Twirling Championship. Looking back, I see how well prepared I was for competition. I’d studied ballet for six years under the exacting instruction of prima ballerina, Ms. Ivanovsky; I’d learned gymnastics with a former competitor from the Japanese gymnastics team; and I’d taken three years of baton twirling with the Monterey County Monarchs. I loved the feeling of expressing my spirit through movement. I practiced daily, and visualized rehearsals during school, on the bus ride home, and in the back seat of my mother’s car.

For the big event, my no-name little school from rural Monterey traveled to Stockton, California. The city seemed huge to me. In the competition halls, large schools with well-heeled teams of girls from Los Angeles and San Francisco strutted back and forth monopolizing the stands, lockers, and dressing rooms. They were loud, confident, and glittering—even their practice wardrobes out-sparkled my best costume.

My school signed in, and I received word that I’d compete in three hours. I would perform a 5 minute solo routine in front of a panel of three judges. I crouched in a corner of the dressing area, and there the real competition began. I stared at the girls with choreographers, make-up artists, hair-stylists, and seamstresses. They were all so big to me.

I started doubting whether I belonged there at all. Instead of visualizing my routine, I imagined doing the wrong routine and making a fool of myself. I thought there was no way I could be as good as the big city girls, and to top it off, my plain outfit and nappy-unkempt hair would make me look ridiculous. (If you know anything about mixed or ethnic hair, you can imagine what I looked like after my blond, flowing-haired mother sprayed it with water and brushed it out . . . tumbleweed, but I digress.)

I still remember my dry mouth, shallow breath, booming heart, and the sensation of having ice in my veins. I began to panic. I would have done anything to withdraw from the competition and spare myself the agony of living through what was coming. I pleaded with my aunt and she refused. She couldn’t understand what I was feeling. She brushed off my request as performance anxiety, and sternly told me to get my act together. I clung to the moments, wishing that the three hours would pass slowly. In my mind, I was on death row.

The competition hall was buzzing with the sounds of cheering, drumbeats, and the palpable energy of driven girls bent on proving that they were the best of the state’s best. My aunt pinned my number to my chest and back, walked me to my place in the cue, squeezed my shoulder, and left to take her seat. I contemplated making up an illness and dodging the performance, but before I could put the story together, my mom and aunt were sitting in the stands directly behind the judges and as if they knew what I was thinking, their eyes held me still.

I watched the girls from the big city schools do their routines as I waited in the cue. We all had to do the same sequence of dance and twirl moves. The girl with the best style, technique, form, and performance would win the state title. The girls were incredible. Their forms were beautiful and they exhibited such bravado in their entrances and exits. The girl who went before me was exceptionally pretty. She sauntered onto the stage and started the routine in a way that I’d never seen before. Instead of taking eight parade style steps to open the routine, as I’d been taught, she took center and started with a twirl. My panic level sky-rocketed. I didn’t know the routine she knew. I wasn’t prepared. I missed the rest of her routine as I seriously contemplated full out running off of the platform. It was too late. My name and number rang out of the speakers, and I surrendered to the slaughter.

I put on my best performance smile, cut the eight steps from my routine, like the goddess before me, and opened with a twirl, desperate to just get through it. When it was finally over, I promised myself that I would never compete again.

An hour later, awards were announced. I didn’t move when I heard my name called as the second place winner. I thought it was a mistake, and momentarily the announcer would apologize and call the rightful second place winner, but he called my name again. My aunt pushed me forward, I plastered on another performance smile and took the 2nd place spot on the podium. Stunned.

Following the awards, all competitors received written score cards and comments from the judges. My scores were almost perfect. My whole body thawed. It wasn’t a mistake, I had earned 2nd place. It was true. I was ecstatic.

And then I saw it.

The one deduction that all three judges gave me was for omitting the eight steps leading into the routine. The final sheet had a note from Shay, my baton twirling idol and the third judge. She wrote, “If you hadn’t missed those eight steps, you’d have won. Beautiful performance!”

My heart fell through the floor. That competition was mine to lose and I had. I lost it to my own insecurity. No one outside of me had done anything to me. I’d done it all. I’d put others on pedestals and lowered myself to the dirt. I’d intimidated, belittled, and mocked myself. I’d beaten myself into smallness. It was all me, only me.

I learned a great deal from this experience, although it took years for me to really grasp it. Today, I’m on my side, and instead of telling myself why I won’t succeed, I’m kind and supportive to me. I reassure myself, and I’ve come to know that as long I have my center, it doesn’t really matter what’s happening out there. What others might be thinking is irrelevant. This is my life, and I am the only one who can ruin it. I won’t do that anymore.

Have you ever beaten yourself? Share with me. Tell me what happened and how you’ve learned from it. 

Love,

Cynthia