At Home

Today is my three-year climbing anniversary, and I decided to share an essay I wrote a year ago just to try and get a recurring thought out of my head and into words. I never did anything with it and now seemed like the time. Climbing is my favorite for so many reasons, but this is definitely one of them… I hope I’m celebrating my anni with it for many years to come.

My college rock climbing wall was tucked into the back corner of our large campus gym. A little half-desk separated it from the weights and treadmills; a colorful bouldering wall and one tall, roped structure with routes on all sides. Nothing to write home about in the grand scheme of things, but a place I was constantly curious about and drawn to.

I’d pick my way through barbells and free weights nonchalantly, acting like I was resting between sets while keeping an eye on the climbing area. I plucked up the courage to go with friends a few times, even taking a belay class with a roommate once; but as fascinated as I was by the idea of the walls and the freewheeling people that seemed to frequent them, I knew climbing wasn’t for me.

Climbing was for people who were nimble, naturally athletic, fearless, and small. People who had a trusting relationship with their bodies. People who were at home in them.

Me, on the other hand?

My primary relationship with my body was based on resentment.

In a world that celebrates smallness in women’s bodies, I have always been big. My dad was a college basketball player, and I inherited his height. Which is great if you’re supermodel willowy, like my sister; but I was born with both of our butts and the kind of legs that seemed to only lend themselves to sports of great force. Push, kick, sprint, pull. Even those took dedicated practice — I’m not a natural athlete — and from 6th grade on, I was conscious of my stomach’s softness, the size of my thighs, and the fact that my friends wore clothes half my size.

I only felt confident in my body when it was playing a sport well; as if it was earning its keep, proving its right to take up the space it did in the world. But sports came to an end after high school, and with them, whatever comfort I’d previously felt in my skin.

I took to running and working out with unhealthy motivations. When I got to college, I kicked it up to unhealthy amounts, blurring the lines between enjoyment and punishment on long runs and in extensive gym sessions. I tried my best to eat as clean as I could. When I dared to treat myself to junk food with friends — half out of hunger, half to avoid drawing any attention to my insecurity — I’d shame myself to the point of tears and panic attacks. As the semesters stacked up, I’d increasingly try to avoid situations where “unhealthy” food would be present, even if it meant missing out on quality time with people I loved. I began experimenting with not eating at all; hating myself a little for always caving to a growling stomach and feeling proud on days I managed to squeak by with a few snacks here and there.

I studied sports journalism in college, and was interested in all things adventure and outdoors. I wanted desperately to be smaller, to look like someone I thought belonged in those spaces; and I loathed my body for not cooperating, for staying too soft and too big. I starved it, I overworked it, I under-slept it, I hid it; and above all, I did not trust it. It felt like a thing that was failing me, that was standing in the way of me being the person I most wanted to be.

So just walking through the doors of my local climbing gym four years later was a victory in and of itself.

By then, I was in a far better place than I was as an undergrad. My sister and a former boyfriend had tag-teamed my senior year of college to get me to admit to having a problem — something I’ll forever be grateful for. I went to counseling. I stopped punishing my body; then stopped actively hating it; and slowly came to a sort of truce with it; a neutral, white-flag zone where I didn’t think much about it at all. And honestly? I thought that was pretty good. I was open about my story with others, and felt like I’d healed as much as I would. My body didn’t define how I thought of myself anymore. My relationship to it was civil. Polite.

When my roommate invited me to check out the climbing gym with her a few days before my 25th birthday, agreeing to tag along was mostly that business-like agreement with my body; a firm handshake in a continued deal to at least appear that we got along.

Besides being completely enchanted by the gym the moment I stepped inside, I couldn’t help noticing that very few of the people climbing in it looked like the prototypical climber I’d always pictured in my mind. They looked like normal, everyday humans that I passed in the grocery store. And while I saw some impressive sends, there were a lot more people falling than finishing, no matter the grade.

I fumbled my way through that first session in predictably gumby style, but no worse than my roommate, who was both petite and athletic — the kind of person I’d expect to excel in the sport. As we headed out the door, she signed up for a membership. I shrugged, then signed up, too. It was an early birthday present to myself — one I didn’t expect to last, but was meant as a milestone of sorts. I didn’t want to make decisions based on my insecurities anymore. I wanted to explore climbing, and I wasn’t going to let my body stop me.

Imagine my surprise, though, when instead of stopping me, my body took to climbing much the way it took to food when I stopped starving it.

It thrived.

The first time I felt my body know what to do on its own on a route was like an electric shock — wait, whoa, who put my hands here? How did my legs know to arrange themselves that way? Why was I turning, twisting; why did it work, and how did it know?

Friends and employees offered advice and language to go with the movements I was starting to naturally feel. I learned about hip turns, back steps, step-throughs, and more. I was continually amazed by how much each felt like something my brain was just learning but my body had known long before.

My height actually helped me. Those strong legs? They gave me power. The grace I’d always assumed I’d lacked suddenly showed up, given the opportunity. I started learning how to work with my body instead of against it, or using it as some sort of brute-force power tool. I started trusting it to make decisions. I started building confidence in it. And every time I felt that spark, that moment where I naturally flowed through a sequence with what felt like zero thought, it thrilled me. Three years later, in fact, it still does.

At some point along the way, I stopped just tolerating my body. I started actually loving it.

In the weeks before coronavirus, I was climbing outdoors with a group of friends who convinced me to lead a bouldery 11c they were working. The crux move was a true dyno off one good jug and one tiny crimp rail, with a choose-your-own-adventure feet situation.

I eyed the hold I would be aiming for. It was good, and I’d grown; but I felt those old doubts rise in the back of my mind. Dynamic climbing is one area in which I still have trouble believing my body won’t let me down — it feels so out of control in the moment, requires so much trust. But I agreed to give it a go.

On my first attempt at the move, I more or less just got the fall out of the way — needing to feel it and prove to myself that I would survive. But I was surprised, after the internal screaming subsided, to realize I’d reached the target with less effort than I imagined. I could feel my palm stinging where it had slapped the limestone.

So on attempt number two, I took a deep breath, swallowed the fear, and jumped with everything in me.

My hand connected with the rock and my fingers closed, instinctually, around it. “Match!” a friend yelled, but my arms were already in motion, instinctually doubling up before I’d even had time to consider the beta. My body tensed, slowed its swing, threw a heel hook to hold me on. I clipped in and leaned back, nearly upside-down, and laughed maniacally. My friend and climbing mentor, Rees, cried. It is, to this day, my favorite moment in my climbing life so far.

I flowed up the rest of the route, the adrenaline in my veins making everything feel super-charged and smooth. I lowered, emotional, and retreated from the group to have a moment to myself and savor it all.

There are a few things that made that moment a milestone, but among them is this: The body I once hated, the body I blamed so long for keeping me from the things I wanted to do and the spaces I wanted to occupy, now gives me the strength and grace and power to do what I imagined was impossible — every day. I am at ease within it. I trust it. I’m grateful for it, and proud of what it does.

I used to think my body was a barrier. Instead, it brought me home.