I never thought that I would learn life lessons from a pair of skates.
I never thought I’d relish the thought of having a bruise roughly the size of my face. And most of all, I never thought I’d be able to be a “skater girl.” But the fact is that I love it. I love everything about roller derby, to the point where I want to add it as a commitment to my already overcommitted life. Because that’s a word that describes me pretty well: overcommitted.
I’ve always wanted to be the best at everything, or at least really, really good at it. Everything but math came easily to me when I was in school and I was always outspoken in classes, which made me appear smart. I competed on the literary team because I was good at it. I did layout for the school paper because I was good at it. I had done martial arts since I was nine, and it came pretty naturally to me. I was, pretty much, good at it.
The only thing I wasn’t particularly good at was playing the oboe. And I think that’s why I decided to stick with it. It was hard. Anything I achieved I had to really, really work for. And that draw of actually achieving something was intoxicating. Everything I am is a product of the countless hours of work I have put in to becoming a better oboist, and ultimately, a better musician. And I’ve made choices for my life that keep me pursuing this crazy dream of being a professional musician. I’ve improved exponentially as a result of the expert teaching, but what it comes down to is that my willingness to learn comes from a willingness to conquer the world of classical music while maintaining my integrity as an artist.
The classical music world focuses a lot on perfection and details and getting everything right the first time. Perhaps the most stressful part is the constant expectation to perform your best. We know everyone has bad days, but in an audition, no one cares if that’s not how you normally play it. We strive for consistent excellence in everything we do, which is derived from hours upon hours upon hours of practice.
When you’ve been playing for eight years and are planning on becoming a professional musician, it’s hard to accept being bad at something. And as of right now, that’s what I am at derby: bad at it.
What I’m learning to accept is that it’s okay to be bad at something. I don’t have to be good at everything in my life. I don’t have to mentally punish myself for failures. In fact, calling them failures doesn’t accurately depict them. They’re setbacks. Or, really, they’re just part of the process of learning.
I fall a lot, but I’m falling less. What’s better is that I’m now falling correctly; I’m falling small and getting back up quickly to skate again. I think that’s what really matters, the getting back up. I know I’m not very good at derby, but it’s something I want to do for myself. It’s empowering to try something new. And I’m learning that it’s okay not to be good at something. It’s still discouraging when I can’t catch up to other skaters and I feel like I’m holding them back, but what keeps me from losing my enjoyment and becoming frustrated is that it’s actually okay that it’s taking me more time than other skaters to find my “skate legs.” For most of them, this is their second time through level one training. I’m improving a lot. I’m not so far behind; I’m right where I should be for having skated once a week for four weeks.
I don’t know if it’s my insatiable desire to conquer difficulties or if it’s the desire to be an athlete again or what else is running through my subconscious, but I really love roller derby. I want to succeed at it because it’s something that I want to do--that I made the decision to do completely independent of other people’s opinions. Maybe it’s that I just want to do a full-contact sport again and have that camaraderie that comes with training together. Maybe it’s that I’ve never been a part of a team. But I want to do this and I want to succeed.
Maybe because it’s something I’m allowed to be bad at. I’m allowed to mess up sometimes, and that’s okay.
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