Before I can register what’s happening, I’m dropping to the floor and stretching my torso and arms over my knees into child’s pose. I’m “honoring my journey.” It’s embarrassing, but relief washes over me. My thighs relax, my breathing evens out, and the muscles around my shoulders loosen. I’m frustrated with myself for dropping out of the challenge, but when I roll my head to the side and peek out at my classmates from under my arm, it looks like nobody’s even noticed me. Hustle for That Muscle Girl resolutely blows out a steady stream of air from pursed lips. The pair of teen girls on my other side don’t seem to blink. Sara only comes my way to press her palms into my lower back.

I can’t remember ever dropping out of a workout like this before. When I was Hallie’s age, if Jasmine or I were tired or in pain, we’d wait until Dimitri got wrapped up in a conversation with another coach or went to the bathroom before we dared take a break. A few moments of rest weren’t worth the threat of his backlash. It was impossible to truly relax when you feared he’d deliver a physically taxing punishment or a cruel joke at your expense.

Back then, Dimitri’s pressure-cooker coaching style made sense: winners work hard, and we wanted to win. Even if Sara’s philosophy is a little new age for me, I hear what she’s saying. Listen to your body; connect to your body; honor your body. Push yourself when you can, and rest when you need to. It goes against everything I was raised with, but in hindsight, maybe Dimitri should have been softer with us. More forgiving. Less intense. After all, I worked hard all the time, just like he wanted me to, and I still didn’t win. I don’t regret the way gymnastics shaped my life, but I do wonder if the few fleeting moments in the spotlight were worth the lifetime of pain I know I have ahead of me.

I take a deep breath. Sara’s hands have drifted away from me; she’s moved on to another student. I concentrate on doing a mental scan of my body. I feel the spongy surface of the yoga mat under my fingertips and the center of my forehead, and I can sense the thin sheen of sweat between my breasts. The soft curve of my belly rests against my thighs, and my hips hinge backward in a comfortable stretch. My feet are tucked under my bottom, and when I wriggle my toes against the mat, I feel the sensation flex all the way up my legs. More than anything, I feel present, and that makes a sob escape from my throat. It’s mortifying to cry here, but somehow, I don’t think anyone will mind.