Shadow Play

Come sit at the bottom of the ocean with me

In the vast stillness, there is peace

Last night I attended my friend Forrest’s workshop on shadow work. Keen, I offered to go first, and when asked to name a current challenge, I spoke about both my attempt and failure to bridge the gap between my body and my mind. He invited me to close my eyes, breathe, and then imagine placing my mind in one hand and my body in the other. In the hand holding my mind, I could feel the well developed, finely tuned connection. In the hand holding my body, my palm felt heavy and the connection less accessible.

Forrest asked, “what is benefitting you about remaining disconnected?”

My mind flashed to synchro practice and the intense compartmentalization required to keep going. This was a world where stopping wasn’t an option and white knuckling was the unspoken standard.

I’m at my first club synchro practice, swimming in one lane with twelve girls. I’m the slowest of the twelve. I have to keep pace, otherwise, worse than just falling behind, the strongest athletes start to lap me. I struggle to swim freestyle, a stroke I never mastered. I do my best but gasping for air, cheeks ruddied, I didn't know it at the time but I’m experiencing exercise-induced asthma. Not that this matters—keeping up is the only aim. I’m ten years old.

I respond to Forrest, “I don’t think it’s benefitting me, just deep, old programming.”

Sixteen laters, I’m at one of my last practices on the National Team. Throughout our morning speed swim, my right psoas smarts with pain. I try kicking less to compensate but it doesn’t help. My leg feels all wrong, like it’s hanging off my body. Something in me - a can’t, a shouldn’t, a won’t - snaps. I put both hands on the deck and I climbed out of the pool.

This is the first time in 16 years I’ve ever stopped in the middle of practice. The team doctor doesn’t believe me when I tell her that my hip is out of place, and her examination only injures me further. It’s so bad that night that I’m scared to even get out of bed and walk to the bathroom.

Choosing to get out of the pool changed something. My coach tries to replace me as the Olympic Duet alternate. And though I’m protected by the administration, I’m told I’ll have to prove I’m up for it and swim flawlessly - by a certain date - through both Olympic Duet programs.

I briefly consider quitting but I stay. This project is a 0/10. But I made a commitment and I’m determined to see it through. The same way I taught myself freestyle when I was 10, I taught myself how to walk, swim, eggbeater (the way we rotate our legs to stay upright), and swim through both Olympic routines.

I keep my spot but there are strong ramifications. I’m cut from training or traveling with the Olympic Duet, 6 weeks before the Olympic Games. In my world, there are consequences for listening to my body.

Forrest asks me to speak to my body from my mind.

“Get over it.” My mind is harsh. Cruel even.

Forrest encourages me to speak from my body and ask her what she needs. I can’t locate her. Finally I say “If I were really listening to my body, I would go make dinner. I’ve only eaten one real meal today.” The room is silent. We wait. After a few moments I get up, gather my things, and leave the space to take care of myself.

The next morning, I wake feeling heavy, and in the pre-dawn quiet, I head out on the balcony to find refuge in the sky and ocean. Nothing is wrong, there is no story. It’s just that no action seems meaningful. My body doesn’t want to be pushed into my mind’s rigorous morning routine. She is slow…breathing….here…at least for now.

I proceed with my morning at half my usual speed. I can’t imagine what the rest of the day will hold. Will I continue to give this undeveloped, less nurtured part of myself space or will I grow impatient with her lack of productivity and push her back into the grind?

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Check out Forrest’s website here.