I'm bouncing off the walls again.

I am 25 years old, and relearning the handstand.

It all started with my knees. This spring, two years post-op, I decided to rejoin the world of organized sports. After extensive googling I found the NetRippers Football Club, Rose City’s LGBTQ soccer club. This May I dug my cleats out of the crawl space, aired out the hand-me-down shin guards I wore throughout high school, and trekked to the Adidas Complex for my first Saturday afternoon practice.

You guys, I loved every minute of that first practice. Sprinting with purpose, letting muscle memory take over, working as a team toward a common goal… I was hooked.

As you may recall, I’m not the best at moderation. I started with Futsal. 44 minutes of high-impact aerobic activity once a week. Over the course of three months, this turned into two indoor soccer teams, an outdoor league, and a weekly Futsal match. By September I was playing 3-5 nights per week, sometimes multiple games a night.

The pain started after that first practice as a nagging tightness in the left knee. Not pain, exactly. More like an uncomfortable awareness that I have a knee, when typically I remain casually oblivious to my body’s existence. When Futsal started, the knee ached more acutely. Occasionally the rapid start/stop would cause buckling and sharp pain. After games I’d hobble upstairs to my bedroom and elevate it to reduce swelling. I started bracing the left knee for stability.

Six weeks ago, I was sitting at work while both knees crackled with some sort of maniac electricity. Imagine electrified ice water caught circulating just under your skin. Or the tip of a very small knife inserted beneath your nerve endings. They hurt when I sat. They hurt when I stood. They didn’t hurt when I walked, but they ached dully in a swelling-and-inflammation way. The only thing that alleviated the pain was squatting. Not crouching in a squat. That hurt too. No, the only relief was actively moving my body up and down in a squatting motion, pausing with my thighs at a 90 degree angle to the floor.

A week later I ceded, and dropped out of the soccer world.

Without soccer, I am relearning my body. I listen to the aches caused by miles of running on poorly rehabilitated joints. I’m learning to be strong, not only physically but mentally. Accepting limitations, giving myself time to heal. I am relearning the word grace.  

Handstands don’t require strong knees. Three weeks now I’ve padded barefoot into my loft and thrown my body against a wall. The first step is building strength. Training your upper body to bear weight: palms flat against hardwood, fingers splayed. Strength. How the shoulders ache and burn at every new angle. Heels against whitewash. I walk these hands back, walk these feet up. Hold. Thirty seconds, sixty seconds. Remember how to breathe. Forget how to count. Don’t worry about falling.

Across the city, Camille writes I feel a little Twilight Zone-y. She says The world is upside down. I say I’m learning to do handstands. My world is upside down. I’m not afraid of falling.

I have a friend back home who wears gravity the way airplanes wear sky. The way ships wear oceans. Effortless, like she was made for this; her body inverted and stock still. She has always been flat planes and sharp angles. I am not her. This does not come easy. Heels against the wall. Weight shifting forward, elbows locked. Balance. Breathe. Do you remember the last time you weren’t afraid to fall?

I hope you’re well, dreamweavers.

-b