DerbyLife Writing Contest: "Roller Derby Makes Me Brave: This New Way Of Being" by Punchberry JAM (a.k.a. Jenna McGuiggan)

Thirty-six years and I've barely inhabited my body, but a bruised tailbone pulls one's attention down into the seat of a self. My body. My tailbone. Nerves and pain at the base of my spine, a flinch and quick "eesh" of air sucked in through my teeth every time I sat or stood or shifted.

I fell because I was roller skating for the first time in 20 years, lured onto wheels by the siren song of Roller Derby. I fell because I went skating alone so no one could see me when I fell, and because I didn't yet know about derby stance. This was before I ever went to a practice. I fell because I was trying to be brave, because I was tired of being so careful in my everyday living.

I've never played an organized sport, never been one to willingly break a sweat, and I've never liked the saying, "No pain no gain."

Thirty-six years, and what do I know of this body?

I don't engage in physically high-risk activities. At most, my lifetime accumulation of injuries have been minor: Paper cuts, skinned knees in childhood, common bruises, sprained ankles from tripping on pebbles. Never broken a bone, but friends would – and do – call me clumsy.

It's not a label I think much about. It just is. Until it's something else.

Advil and ice helped the pain of my bruised tailbone, but there wasn't anything I could take to fight off the confusion and fear that burbled up with each dull ache and stab.

I wrestled with the tension that vibrates between between pride and shame. So proud of myself for getting on skates, for falling and getting back up. So proud! And so ashamed for taking a risk and getting hurt. I hid my guilt behind a thin veneer of bravado and practical pronouncements: "It's not so bad. There's not much you can do for a bruised tailbone except rest it." That week was uncomfortable, not just for my backside, but also for my inner compass. I was learning to look at the world through a new lens, the lens of: I took a risk and got hurt, but that doesn't mean I'm stupid or bad or irresponsible.

This was a new way of being in the world. If you played sports as a child, you may not understand this. If you are accustomed to taking physical risks, you may not comprehend. But if all your life you've been bundled up in...

Play it safe...
Be careful...
Take it easy...

...then you get it. You may comprehend the profound nature of this shift.

All my life I've been afraid of getting hurt.

All my life this tension between desire and fear.

No sex before marriage. No driving too fast or without a seat belt. No drugs. No excessive drinking. No. No. No.

I've bubble wrapped myself in worry.

The day I stepped outside of that soft bunting, the bubble burst. An epiphany of the obvious: Sometimes people do things for fun that can hurt them. And this is not wrong. This is an acceptable way of being in the world.

At age 36 I was learning what most 10-year-olds know. Kids who play sports learn these lessons about their bodies, their limits, their capabilities. They learn how to get hurt and how to heal. How to get hurt again and still not fear. Here I was, approaching (or perhaps already in) middle age, navigating – for the first time – this new way of being in the world. This new way of being in my body. This new way of being me. This new way of being. This new way. This.

Punchberry JAM is a writer, editor, and creativity coach who lives in landlocked southwestern Pennsylvania and dreams about the ocean. She skates with Westmoreland Roller Derby. Visit her in The Word Cellar.