The Accident

In the summer of 1995, just before my senior year of high school, I found myself facing a big decision: where was I going to college?

My father had a very strong opinion on the matter. He informed me that after spending fourteen years and countless dollars on gymnastics, I owed him a college scholarship. The problem was, I was completely burned out on gymnastics. I still loved being active, but my heart had shifted toward cheerleading. Earlier that summer, I attended a cheerleading camp in San Marcos where I met the University of Texas cheer coach. He encouraged me to apply to UT and try out for the squad, and for the first time, I could actually picture a future that didn't involve gymnastics.

Unfortunately, reality had other plans. My grades were solid, but my SAT and ACT scores weren't exactly setting the world on fire. Getting into UT wasn't likely. On top of that, there wasn't a college fund waiting for me. When my father had received an inheritance years earlier, he invested it in everything from the stock market to oil rights to a card and gift shop that never made a dime. By the time I was ready for college, there wasn't any money set aside for my sister's education or mine.

So when my father began mailing letters and sending out highlight reels of my gymnastics career to colleges around the country, I went along with it. It didn't feel like much of a choice.

Eventually, I received invitations to visit Texas Woman's University, the University of Iowa, and the University of Oklahoma.

The visit to Texas Woman's University was so forgettable that I can barely tell you anything about it. We toured the campus, looked at the gym, and that was about it. Nothing stood out.

Iowa was memorable, but mostly because it was freezing. They invited my mom to come along, which felt a little strange, and we spent most of the trip trying not to turn into popsicles. We attended a football game, had dinner with university officials, and the one evening I got to spend with the gymnastics team consisted of sitting in a dorm room watching reruns of Friends. Nice enough, but not exactly exciting.

Then came Oklahoma.

The current gymnasts welcomed us with open arms. We spent the evening playing drinking games at one of their apartments before heading to a wrestling party where we danced, laughed, and stayed out far too late. The next day I felt absolutely terrible and spent most of a football game looking slightly green, but I didn't care. For the first time during the recruiting process, I felt like I had found my people.

By the time I left Norman, my decision was made.

A few months later, I signed my letter of intent to attend the University of Oklahoma on a full gymnastics scholarship. We had a big celebration, and at the time, I was mostly excited about what it looked like to everyone else. I was the girl who got a full ride. I wasn't thinking about the fact that I had just committed to four more years of a sport I was already burned out on.

That reality hit me pretty quickly.

Not long after I signed, the OU coach asked me to start competing a double back dismount off the uneven bars again. It was a skill I had performed years earlier in club gymnastics, but during high school gymnastics I had simplified most of my routines because the more difficult skills weren't necessary.

So I quit cheerleading and started training at a local club gym in the evenings. Before long, I had the double back dismount back. I could do it without much trouble when I practiced it by itself. But adding it to the end of a full bar routine was a completely different story. By the time you reach your dismount, you're exhausted.

As regionals and state approached in the spring of 1996, I became determined to add the skill to my routine.

Looking back now, one memory from that week feels almost eerie.

On April 1st, our team was practicing on the uneven bars when someone suggested we play an April Fool's joke on Coach Haney. Since I was always up for a little mischief, I volunteered.

At the end of my routine, I landed my dismount and immediately grabbed my ankle, collapsing to the floor.

Rolling my ankle was something I had done more than once, so everyone bought it. Coach Haney rushed over in a panic.

Then I jumped up and yelled, "April Fools!"

Everyone laughed.

A couple of days later, we held a practice meet at our gym. It was a great night. The senior gymnasts took pictures together, joked around, and enjoyed being together. Everything felt normal.

The next morning, April 4, 1996, I woke up feeling sick.

I told my mom I wasn't feeling well, and she suggested I stay home from practice. Looking back, I wish more than anything that I had listened to her.

But regionals were coming up, and I felt responsible for setting an example for my teammates. So I went.

That decision would change my life forever.

When I arrived at practice that morning, Coach Haney gathered us in the locker room to watch a clip from Rocky IV. It was the scene where Rocky was training in the snow, pushing himself to his limits. Coach Haney loved using motivational videos to get us fired up before workouts, and she was one of the most inspiring coaches I've ever had. She taught us about perseverance, hard work, and pushing through obstacles.

After the video, she gave us our assignments for the day. I decided to start on the uneven bars, my least favorite event, so I could get it out of the way. I had been thinking about that double back dismount for weeks. Regionals were right around the corner, and I was determined to finally put it into my routine.

I mounted the bars and started my routine. Everything felt normal. I hit skill after skill and eventually found myself at the very end of the routine. I swung up into my final handstand and paused for just a moment.

You can do this.

I swung down and went for the double back. Somewhere in the middle of the skill, panic hit. Instead of committing to the second flip, I tried to stop and turn it into a single.

Gymnasts develop something called air awareness. No matter how many flips or twists you're doing, you almost always know where you are. You know if you're going to land short. You know if you're over-rotating. You know whether you're going to stick the landing or crash.

But this time was different. I had absolutely no idea where I was. For the first and only time in my gymnastics career, I felt completely lost in the air.

Then I did something gymnasts are never supposed to do. I closed my eyes.

"I am going to land badly," I thought. "This is going to hurt."

The next thing I knew, I slammed into the mat. I landed on my upper back with my legs folded over my head.

At first, I assumed my legs were still up in the air because that's what it felt like. But when I opened my eyes, they weren't there. I couldn't see them. More importantly, I couldn't feel them.

A sharp pain shot through my back. Panic immediately set in.

"I can't feel my legs!" I screamed.

My coach and teammates rushed toward me.

Even in that moment, I somehow knew this wasn't just a broken bone or a bad fall. The year before, a friend and fellow gymnast had broken his neck during gymnastics and become a quadriplegic. As terrifying as it sounds, my mind immediately went there.

I knew something was very, very wrong.

As I lay on the mat, the pain slowly began creeping higher and higher up my back. More than anything, I was terrified it would continue upward and affect my arms.

I remember Coach Haney sprinting to the phone to call our athletic trainer. School policy required him to evaluate injured athletes before an ambulance could be called.

He arrived quickly, but time seemed to move in slow motion. He touched different parts of my legs and feet, asking over and over if I could feel anything.

I couldn't.

Then came the paramedics. And more questions. And more poking. And more "Can you feel this?"

By that point I was frustrated and scared. I finally pointed to the spot on my body where sensation stopped and told them that was where I could still feel.

The paramedics and firefighters worked together to stabilize me and carefully place me onto a backboard and stretcher.

Somewhere during all of that, my parents arrived.

My mom looked completely terrified. Her face was white as a sheet as she fired questions at anyone who would listen. I honestly don't remember much about what my dad was doing.

What I do remember is trying to comfort her. As they wheeled me toward the ambulance, I told her not to cry and assured her everything was going to be okay.

I didn't believe it. But I said it anyway.

By then, students had started arriving at school. The sight of an ambulance outside the gym had drawn a crowd, and as the paramedics wheeled me out, students lined both sides of the walkway.

They cheered. Some clapped. Others simply stood and watched. I remember giving them a thumbs-up as I passed. It was my way of telling everyone that I was okay.

The truth was that I had already lost hope.

The ride to the hospital felt endless. Every bump in the road sent pain shooting through my back. The IV pain medication didn't seem to help much, especially when we hit the speed bumps leaving the school parking lot. I remember staring at the ceiling of the ambulance, trying to process what was happening.

Round Rock's hospital wasn't equipped to handle an injury like mine, so they took me to Brackenridge Hospital in downtown Austin, the area's trauma center.

When I arrived, everything became a blur of activity. Doctors and nurses surrounded me. Tests were performed. Questions were asked.

At one point, a doctor asked if I watched the television show ER.

When I told him I did, I looked around the room and asked, "Okay, so which one of you is George Clooney?"

The room erupted in laughter.

Humor has always been my defense mechanism. Even then.

I was wheeled off for X-rays, MRIs, and what felt like every scan known to mankind. Afterward, I returned to the emergency room to wait for the spine surgeon.

My parents were there. My principal had arrived. Coach Haney was there too. Everyone was waiting.

And somehow, deep down, I already knew.

Maybe it was intuition. Maybe it was the complete absence of feeling in my legs. Maybe it was because of what had happened to my friend the year before.

Whatever the reason, I think I already understood that my life had changed forever.

The pain medication made me loopy, though.

At one point, I remember talking about what color wheelchair I wanted. Forest green. As if choosing a color was somehow the important thing.

Looking back, I can't help but laugh. It had to be the drugs talking.

Eventually, the surgeon arrived, and I was taken into the operating room. The surgery lasted more than four hours.

When it was over, two metal rods had been placed alongside my spine to stabilize the damage.

The diagnosis was official. A T10 spinal cord injury. Paraplegia.

At seventeen years old, in the spring of my senior year, the life I had planned for myself disappeared in an instant.

The scholarship. The gymnastics career. The future I had spent years imagining.

It was all gone.

What I didn't know at the time was that while one life had ended that morning on the uneven bars, another one was just beginning.

And as difficult as the road ahead would be, it would eventually teach me more about strength, perseverance, and resilience than gymnastics ever could.