Usually when I talk about the open, I’m thinking about the great wide open, the incredible vistas that reward a sweaty hike carting gear on my back. The views that few will get to see, because few take the effort to get out there.

But in this case, I’m talking about the Crossfit Open – an entirely different beast.

I signed up for the Open in a last minute fashion, finally convincing myself that, like a 5K race, it would be something fun. The point is not to win, but to participate, to strive, to mark my name down as one who worked.

And I did. I participated in all five Open workouts, albeit scaled. No, I did not merely participate, for that would mean something akin to just showing up for the workouts, just doing them. And I did not just do them.

I competed.

I was judged. I submitted my scores and was ranked against every other athlete who did the same.

I guess that makes me an athlete, officially.

Not because I was not ranked last (though I was not last), but because I put down my name and I competed in an athletic endeavor.

A girl who was cut after the first day of try-outs from the only high school sport she ever tried out for, a girl who barely made it through the mandated two semesters of gym class, a girl who used to believe, deep down, that her brother was right when he lashed out and called her a fat slug… finished the CrossFit Open.

Hells yeah.

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