This past week, I came to a realization—the women’s BYU ultimate team is beginning to dissolve. People are jaded, injured, or ready to move on (marriage, grad school), and the time has come to say good-bye for awhile—maybe forever.
This change got me thinking about how many years of my life I’ve invested playing this obscure sport. How much joy and heartache it has caused me mentally, physically and emotionally.
(A side-by-side comparison of my legs after my second knee reconstruction surgery in 2006.)
I’m not really interested in a “walk down memory lane,” as of yet. What I am interested in talking about is the emotional hole I’m beginning to feel open up.
This loss is combined with another problem I’m starting to face—the loss of youth. I’m getting older, uglier, and fatter by the day.
(This 2005 picture of my bicep shows me in peak condition. Why don't they warn you're not going to feel that good forever?)
These are just the cold hard facts. Life is changing.
I’m not saying I don’t have some constancy. My older sister and my parents are a big help in that department. But I am single, and I'm sure most people would agree, out of preservation for healthy autonomy, single people require semi-permanent relationships in order to cope with their lack of permanent family structure. The only problem with this is, eventually, these structures fall apart, and one is left to emotionally fend for oneself.
Consequently, a festering question has formed in my mind—“If home is where the heart is, and the heart is where loved ones are, what do you do with yourself after everyone has left? Where is home?"
I’m tired of being the one left behind.
I’m tired of my ambition, because as gratifying as it is, it offers little consolation for this particular brand of lonely.When I stare into my undivined future, I realize how many miles I have left to go. And I'm afraid I might have to go them alone.
Whose woods these are I think I know
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there’s some mistake.
T he only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.