Dear CrossFit

Dear CrossFit,

I like that you push me. That you shove me around. That you don’t listen to my whining, my excuses, my belly-aching.

When I say, “This is hard” . . . you say, “Do it again.”

When I say, “But I’m not good at this” . . . you say, “So, practice. Get good.”

When I say “This hurts” . . . you say, “So does life. Get over it.”

You poke me in the chest, you kick me in the ass, you drive me over the edge.

And I love every single flippin’ minute of it. Even as I hate it too.

If I wanted my workout to hug me and make me feel special, I’d be rocking some jazzeryoga40x in my basement. With some chamomile tea. And a blankie.

But I’m not here for the party. I’m here because I don’t need another person in life to tell me that I’m special and I’m good enough and I’m wonderful. (I mean, don’t stop with that, my ego kinda digs it.) But I want the truth. I can handle it. And I can handle the work to make myself better.

I don’t have a muscle-up. And I needed to be reminded of that, and the many other things I need to motor on.

See, CrossFit, we understand each other. Keep pushing me, don’t ever stop.



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