Memories from Medals

    The objects that tell the story of my life don’t hold value physically, but rather, they hold significance because of the memories they induce. The objects that most wholly tell the story of my life are my collection of medals and ribbons that I have acquired from gymnastics. Up until quitting in 9th grade, I could not remember a time when I wasn’t in the sport. From the signed certificates I received from leveling up when I was little to the medals I won from frequent meets once I grew older, these items help narrate the story of my life. However, the story they tell goes beyond the achievements they represent. When I recently rediscovered my box of awards from the depths of my closet, memories of those times came rushing back. Yet, when I picked up the silver all-around medal from my very first meet at 8 years old, I did not think of the accomplishment itself or how fulfilled I had felt at that moment. Instead, I remembered how, the week prior to that meet, I had left practice in tears because I was too scared to do skills on the high bar. I remembered how my entire family had shown up to see me, even my grandparents, who drove two hours out of their way to support me. 

    All of the items in that box carry a similar story. With every award, I fail to remember specific details about my performance at the meet. I can’t recall if I was satisfied or disappointed with myself, if I had fallen on a skill, or how many points I scored. But instead, I remember what was happening in my life at the time. My medals from my time as a younger gymnast bring back memories of convincing my 3rd grade best friend to switch gyms to be on my team. They bring back memories of lining up after practice to get stamps on my arms from my coach, being picked up from practice by my mom and going to buy juice from the grocery store. 

    As I became older, the memories from my awards progressed too. I can recall leaving early from my second day of 6th grade to drive 4 hours away for an invitational meet and saying goodbye to my first-ever coach at that same meet a year later. When I got to high school and my workload became heavier, my medals bring memories of doing my homework in the car on the way to practice and meets. One specific set of medals marks my last meet before I dislocated my knee in practice, causing me to miss most of the season.

    When I finally quit, just one season after my knee injury, I sold my practice gear and put all of my awards in a box that, up until recently, was left untouched. However, when I brought that box out again, with it came an unexpected realization. Although these awards tell the story of my life, it is not the achievements themselves that narrate. If a complete stranger were to see my medals layed out, they might be able to tell that I was decent at my sport, and I participated in a lot of meets, but that is not the story of my life or the story of my time in gymnastics. A stranger wouldn’t be able to see the life I built around my sport because that story can’t be encapsulated with objects. No collection of objects can successfully tell someone’s story because it requires context. Telling a story so immense as one of an entire life demands memories and humanizing details, something that cannot be done with a series of objects. I realize now that although awards from my many years as a gymnast cannot tell my life story, they are a good starting point. Gymnastics was a central part of my identity for a long time, and resultingly, these medals are openers to many of the small, personable details that eventually make up the story of my life.