Not a Quitter
On fear, failure, and learning to call it trauma
This is Mental Health Awareness Month. Every Sunday in May, I’m sharing a chapter from my memoir, Built for More. This is week one.
I was fifteen. A gymnast. All in.
Not A Quitter – Fear, Mental Blocks & Failure
It had now been 18 months since the uneven bars accident that left both of my elbows broken and nearly two years since my last competition.
But in some ways that didn’t matter because all I could see was the goal I’d set early in my recovery: to qualify for regionals as a level 9 gymnast.
I’d chosen homeschool so I could train 30 hours a week. I worked through fear and PTSD from the traumatic fall. I’d rebuilt my identity not just as a gymnast, but as a gymnast who didn’t quit. Who kept pushing.
Who would let nothing get in the way of her comeback goal.
And everything seemed to be on track.
On the day of the qualifying competition, my mom and I drove to the arena in silence, as was our routine, and all of the gymnasts stood in straight, orderly lines across the floor mat as the National Anthem played.
The feeling in the pit of my stomach was a strange combination of nerves, pride, determination, and palpable fear of failing.
I took a deep breath and reminded myself of all the hard work to get to this moment.
“Just do what you know you can do,” I whispered to myself as we walked to the first event.
The first three events went as well as I’d hoped. Not perfect, but no major falls and scores that keep on track to the qualifying target. “This is good. I can do this. Almost there,” I thought as I strapped on my grips for the final event of the competition.
I saluted the judges to start my routine and flashed the required smile despite a million emotions churning in my stomach. I completed the first half of the routine flawlessly. Almost there. But as I jumped to the high bar, my body froze.
My feet hit the ground.
I stared at my feet on the blue mat, stunned. I had no idea what just happened.
I looked to my coach, and she nodded her head as a signal for me to get back on the bar. I tried again, but the same thing happened. My feet end up on the blue mat when they were supposed to be swinging through the air.
I saluted to signal the end of the routine and walked back over to my teammates with my performant smile still intact. I wasn’t yet upset. I was still in shock.
I saw the score flash in big red electronic numbers, with my last name at the top. 4.6 out of 10. The lowest score I’d received. Ever.
The reality set in that my shot at qualifying for regionals was over. Everything I’d built back for was done.
A cloud of embarrassment and shame consumed me. My face felt hot. My ears were ringing. It was hard to breathe.
I stoically followed my teammates to the floor mat for the awards ceremony. But beneath the surface of that strong, courageous, tough teenager, my internal world was spiraling.
I didn’t cry. Not yet. It all felt like a bad dream. I kept trying to will myself to wake up from this nightmare. But it wasn’t a dream; it was all very, very real.
I watched as my teammates accepted their plaques and stood on the podium alongside other gymnasts who had qualified for regionals, and I did my best to cheer for them.
When it was all finally over, I found my mom in the hallway of the arena, and broke down in her arms. Inconsolable.
“I’m a failure. I’m worthless. I’m an embarrassment to everyone.” That tape played on repeat in my head over and over and over.
I cried in the bathroom of the hotel for the entire night. Not just little tears but full-body sobs. My eyes were red and raw, and my leotard—still on even hours after the meet had ended— was soaked with both of our tears. My mom held me. She told me she loved me. She did everything she could to help me see a bigger picture. But I couldn’t.
Embarrassment. Shame. Failure. Worthless.
Learning to Call it Trauma
Trauma.
It’s a word we rarely associate with youth sports. Culture teaches us to see injuries and failures as obstacles to overcome. Proof that we’re tough. Evidence that we’re resilient. Part of the grind.
And some of that is true.
Reaching an elite level requires a certain tolerance for discomfort, a willingness to push, a skill set that — when held wisely — can shape a lifetime of high performance.
But somewhere along the way, many of us learned to march through everything like soldiers, wearing our scars as badges of honor.
Because I can tell you this: the events of this time didn’t just test me. They left a profound, lasting impact on my life, both physically and emotionally.
A life-disrupting injury. Trauma.
Undiagnosed PTSD that I continued to train on top of. Trauma.
Believing a single external outcome defined my worth — and then falling short. Trauma.
Watching my sense of self collapse while still pretending to be the resilient gymnast who never quit. Trauma.
And yet, from the outside, nothing looked “wrong.”
I had parents who cared far more about my well-being than my medals. I had a coach who challenged me, yes, but who never demeaned me. A coach who cared for me as a person first.
I didn’t grow up in a toxic program.
And that’s what makes it so hard to name. I had incredible people around me. I loved the sport.
And still — it was trauma.
It’s taken nearly twenty years to unwind the impact of those days.
The work started with a sports psychologist helping me process the acute shock of my injury, but it didn’t end there. Therapy of every kind followed.
Recovery wasn’t linear. It still isn’t.
Even now, decades later, I sometimes catch myself believing I’m only valuable if I’m the hardest worker in every room. The old stories still whisper: Don’t rest. Don’t slow down. Don’t be weak.
But today, I can hear the whisper for what it is: a lie I once needed for survival.
Healing the painful parts of our past takes time. And often, it starts with the smallest acts: one moment of honesty where we allow ourselves to realize that the experiences that made us strong may also have left scars.
But those parts of our story aren’t fixed.
With time and reflection, we can revisit them. We can hold them with more compassion. And sometimes, we can even begin to rewrite the meaning they have today.
Let me be the one to tell you that the hard pieces of your story deserve healing. It doesn’t matter how long ago they occurred or that you didn’t consider them trauma at the time. They deserve care.
We don’t have to be soldiers anymore.
We don’t have to keep marching.
We get to be human.
And humans bleed when they get hurt.
With honesty, humility, kindness, and strength,
Amanda
P.S. This month, I want this to be more than a place to read. I want it to be a place to be heard.
If you have any questions, memories, or even something you’ve never said out loud, please hit reply or drop it in the chat. Every message will be read. Nothing is off limits.
In lieu of weekly behind-the-scenes videos, I'll be hosting a Substack Live on Friday, May 29, at 12 PM MST, where I'll address questions anonymously and open a conversation on the topics we usually hide.