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Author/Athlete/Professional
Speaker "Think of yourself as an athlete. I guarantee you it will change the way you walk, the way you work, and the decisions you make about leadership, teamwork, and success."- MBN |
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I’m a former college and pro basketball player, and an expert on competition. I write books about women’s ways of winning. I speak to corporate women, urging them to embrace victory unapologetically. But I can also be too competitive. I can become so fixated on success that I forget to notice that someone’s getting hurt in the process. Usually that someone is me. For instance: Recently I noticed that masters swimming (my current favorite sport) was destroying my joints. I had been having so much fun competing, I’d neglected the subtle signals my knees and shoulders were giving me. Quitting helped heal my joints, but it also it taught me some useful things about competing (and not competing) in the rest of my life. Before I quit, I led Lane Five. I took that job seriously, listening to Coach’s instructions then trying not to mess up the intervals (the amount of time between laps). I fancied myself a team leader, offering encouragement to Sue, Ruth, Robert, and George. “Nice job,” I’d say, “just one more set to go.” Then I’d disappear underwater, align my feet against the wall and push, my body strong as a surfboard. After each set, Ruth would ask: “How’d you do?” I liked it that she cared. I liked chatting with her afterward, while showering and dressing, our bodies exhausted and exhilarated. It’s hard to explain this to noncompetitive people: why it’s fun to strain and push and sweat (even in the pool, you sweat) until your muscles ache and you can hardly breathe. I like the speed, the effort, the success, the teamwork. I love the moment when the morning sun oozes over the cottonwood trees and spills pink paint into the pool so I can feel my back burning hot while underwater my belly and thighs and face stay shivery cool. Sometimes that’s enough: the rapture of cold water, hot sun, good company, and a long, lean body, stroking. But soon I want to go fast: faster than the person next to me. I’ve always been an athlete. Through sports I found an identity, a social support system, a profound confidence in my ability to achieve, and an appreciation for my body’s strength, beauty and grace. Everything I know about courage and effort and achievement and persistence and teamwork, I’ve learned on the playing fields, on the courts, in pools and rivers and oceans. But after more than 35 years of competitive sports, I finally noticed: my joints cannot tolerate the stress. The decision to quit came gradually, after long quarrels between my mind, which always argued for competition, and my joints, which were literally sick and tired. Should I swim in an upcoming national meet, which I’d love to do? Or not, because my body doesn’t want to? As if “I” and “my body” were two warring factions. Like any addict, I tried bargaining with myself: I’ll only compete in this one meet, in one event. I’ll only compete if I’m pain-free that day. I’d argue with myself while swimming, while cycling, while walking my dog, while lying in bed, even while sleeping. I dreamed I was on the sidelines of a basketball court. A coach said, “It’s okay, Mariah. We don’t need you to play anymore.” I started meeting people who hobble on artificial joints. “I’ve had both knees replaced,” they explained, limping past. Yet I thought: If I never get to stand on those starting blocks again, feeling proud and excited and eager to show off my new dive, I’m going to miss it terribly. Then I’d think: If I have to get my shoulders or knees replaced by plastic ones, I’ll miss them even more. Finally, about two months after my 40th birthday, I decided to retire from competitive swimming. I called it retiring instead of quitting; it sounded more mature. An earned privilege, a wise thing to do in one’s older years. I had expected to grieve. Instead I felt a tremendous weight lift from my shoulders -- and my knees. Ahhh. I don’t have to do that anymore. I stopped arguing with myself, stopped replaying the obsessive “should I or shouldn’t I?” tape. When I quit competing in swimming, I started making more conscious decisions about when to compete in my professional life. I now ask myself: If I compete in this arena, how will I feel afterward? It it worth the possible damage to myself or others? Is it worth my time? Will I enjoy the process? Am I just tempted to compete out of habit, or out of ego, or because, like a mountain, the competitive opportunity is there? Those of us who are too competitive -- whether we express our obsessions in athletic arenas or business meetings or around the family dinner table -- hurt ourselves: our bodies, our integrity, our chances for happiness and success. We also hurt others: the loved ones we ignore because we’re too fixated on victory; the rivals we cheat because winning becomes the only thing; the potential teammates we alienate when we compete inappropriately, in the wrong times and places. Women need to compete for what we want: openly, forthrightly, ethically. Too many of us hold back because we’re uncomfortable with competition, or don’t know the rules, or are afraid someone will resent our success. We need to give ourselves permission to win. But we also need to give ourselves permission not to compete. Not to enter certain arenas that would prove injurious to our health, or the health of others. It’s a delicate balance: having the courage to compete, and also discerning when it’s best not to. I still swim. Nowadays I try to swim well, to feel smooth and efficient, to enjoy the physical poetry of swimming. I still measure success: now I “win” when my joints don’t hurt at all. If Ruth and my other teammates sprint, I drift to the back of the lane and swim elementary backstroke. It feels frivolous and luxurious as I watch the clouds, grinning. Sometimes, choosing not to compete can be a victory in itself. Want to read more about winning? Check out We Are All Athletes. To contact Mariah about her presentations, call 703/276-8323 or write to her at Mariah@MariahBurtonNelson.com Home © 2000-2002
Mariah Burton Nelson 2002
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