The Lessons That Stayed Long After Practice Ended

I have been writing this piece in my head for over two decades.

Since the moment I met her.

Before I was ever her learner, I knew who she was.
She was the coach.

The kind whose presence entered the room before she did.
Vibrant blonde hair. Signature bangs. A look she is still rocking and slaying to this day.
She didn’t need an introduction. Her presence did the talking.

And still does.

But where do you begin when someone shapes you long before you realize you’re being shaped?

Perhaps the most honest place to start is the day I walked into my very first Level 7 practice.

I showed up adorned in a crushed velvet leotard and pink, puffy pink hair clips, adorable AF by all accounts.
Fresh meat.
Newbie energy.
Equal parts confidence and complete unawareness.

The Level 10s were already there.

Seasoned. Sharp. Unbothered.

They didn’t need to say a word. Their bodies told the story.
Strength. Precision. Endurance.
A quiet understanding of what it actually took to be in that room.

I, on the other hand, walked in wide-eyed and eager, ready to prove myself without fully understanding what that would require.

And then it happened.

Day one.

The quote that would imprint itself on my nervous system for life:

“If you can’t hang with the big dogs, get off the porch.”

No sugar.
No soft landing.
No apology.

Just truth.

That practice didn’t go gently. I made the team restart handstand holds, again and again, until my arms shook and my body begged me to quit. I left that gym, mind you, after making the team restart yet again, quite literally holding my own weight in my hands,  humbled in a way that couldn’t be intellectualized.

That night, I knew exactly what I had signed up for.

Not just physically, but mentally, emotionally, relationally.

This wasn’t about talent.
It wasn’t about potential.
It was about commitment.

And she knew that long before I did.

What she taught me, without ever standing at a whiteboard or delivering a motivational speech, was that growth doesn’t care how badly you want it. Growth responds to what you’re willing to do when it’s uncomfortable, repetitive, unglamorous, and hard.

She taught me that standards are not punishment.
They’re protection.

That discipline is not cruelty.
It’s clarity.

That excellence isn’t loud.
It’s consistent.

Over time, I learned that her expectations weren’t about breaking us down. They were about revealing who we were willing to become. She didn’t chase potential; she responded to effort. She didn’t rescue. She coached.

And in doing so, she gave me something I carry into every room I enter today.

The understanding that forward motion is a choice.
One made again and again, especially when quitting feels easier.

I didn’t know then that this lesson would ripple far beyond athletics. That it would shape how I parent. How I lead. How I coach adults who are navigating complex lives and raising deeply feeling humans in an equally complex world.

But now I see it clearly.

She taught me to stay on the porch only long enough to decide, and then to get off.

To commit.
To engage.
To hang with the work.

This piece isn’t about nostalgia.

It’s about honoring the humans who teach us how to tolerate discomfort without abandoning ourselves. The ones who hold the line not because they lack compassion, but because they believe we are capable of more.

Without humans brave enough to share their thinking, their standards, and their expectations with the world, this work I do today simply wouldn’t exist.

And for that?

I remain deeply grateful.