Jasmine gives me a knowing look. I don’t have to spell it out for her. The fact is if you train and compete as an elite gymnast, you get hit one way or another, if not multiple ways: maybe you get molested by a doctor or maybe you fail out of college because you’re too depressed and disoriented to give a shit anymore. Your body breaks down: your spine aches if you stand for too long, or your ankle is held together with metal screws, or you never fully shake off the habits you picked up to starve yourself.

“I like this a lot. And god only knows I’ll need something to keep my mind off…” She waves her hand vaguely around the bedroom. “All of this.”

We finish packing up Jasmine’s bedroom and bathroom quickly. The entire time, we work through ideas: what the group needs to do, how to make it happen, and even a name. We settle on the Elite Gymnastics Foundation, which would provide mental health services and support to top gymnasts.

I feel the same flood of adrenaline and desperate sense of longing I felt when I first fought for the coaching job at Summit. It’s not a new feeling, either; I remember the tangled rush of emotions from my own gymnastics career. Wanting things—wanting things so badly, my heart races and the hair on my arms stands on end—makes me feel alive and full of energy. Right now, I feel like I could stick a double-twisting layout flyaway off the high bar.

I’m not naïve—I don’t expect two former athletes to change the sport overnight. But if gymnastics taught me anything, it’s that if you work long and hard at something, astronomical, unfathomable success can be yours.

When Jasmine tapes up the final box, we carry everything downstairs to the foyer so the movers can pick them up later this afternoon. (All those years of conditioning really did come in handy.) We sit on the cool tile floor in the front hallway, leaning against the cardboard boxes with our feet splayed out in front of us.

“Girl, thank you,” Jasmine says, exhausted.

“This? This was nothing,” I say truthfully.

I’m happy to help her with whatever she needs. She should know that by now.

“I don’t mean just the boxes,” she says. “That was clutch, but I mean everything—the boxes, your friendship, this idea. It’s a big idea.”

“It is,” I admit. “And there’s nobody better in the world to do it with. It has to be you and me.”

Suddenly, her eyes sparkle, and she bolts upright.

“Huddle up?” she asks mischievously.

The old memories of our competition ritual, our good-luck charm, come flooding back.

“Let’s huddle up,” I say, beaming.

We loop our arms around each other’s shoulders. I’m not sure what to say.

“We can do this,” she declares.