Failure and I are in a complicated relationship. After spending what felt like most of my life living in fear of it, I decided to not only walk towards it but to hold its hand and become friends.
When I was a kid, I was constantly told that I was so smart and so articulate and so precocious. That was the word my mother, then in her early 20s, had to look up in the dictionary to make sure that the doctor who said it was accurately describing toddler me. Turns out, he was, in more ways than he could see then. Merriam-Webster defines the adjective precocious as "exhibiting mature qualities at an unusually early age" and "exceptionally early in development or occurrence." As I got older, this was also a word I heard often from teachers and other school grown-ups, but I didn't have to look it up in the dictionary, you know, because precocious.
I talked at a very early age. My mom tells the story still about how, on the occasion of my first birthday, I stood on top of the picnic table (I was walking before my first birthday as well), and declared to my family there assembled, "Thank you all for my presents." My extended family of great-grandparents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins were all delighted by my preternatural gift of gab, as if they were watching a ventriloquist dummy speak on its own. But they did not always respond to me in kind, knowing full well that I was still a toddler standing in front of them, so some of them spoke in baby talk to me, purposely mispronouncing and lisping words, maybe in an attempt to normalize what must've seemed like an odd interaction to engage with a 20-month-old.
As much as I might've been my family's favorite sideshow spectacle, my father took my language development very seriously, much more than one would expect from a 21-year-old high school dropout and first-time father. My mom was mortified to see my dad remove me from my great-aunts' arms any time they used baby talk when engaging with me. She felt like he was being rude and depriving me of an opportunity to develop any close family relationships whereas he was adamant that they were actually harming me and stunting my growth; he thought he was protecting me and my brain, the most essential human organ.
Nature, Not Just Nurture
So my dad was vigilant about my learning abilities, in the nurture sense, but neither of my parents were aware of, much less understood, that I am hyperlexic, in the nature sense. Mind you, I had never heard of hyperlexia until I was in my 40s, but when I read the definition, I instantly recognized myself. The Cleveland Clinic defines hyperlexia as "a condition in which a child begins reading markedly earlier than expected for their age" and that the child's "word-reading ability exceeds their language comprehension." Hyperlexia can also manifest in a child's early obsession with letters and numbers, preferring books over most other toys, and in an uncanny ability to memorize sounds, letters, words, images, and patterns.
I figured out how to read so early that I do not recall a time in my life when I did not know how to read (and I have an excellent memory because hyperlexia). My mom insists that I just one day picked up the TV Guide magazine on the coffee table and started reading out loud. I was two years old at the time and knew how to hold the magazine so that it was right side up, could turn the pages from right to left, and could read from the left side of the page to the right. By the time I was old enough for kindergarten in the fall of 1984, I had really nailed my sideshow act to include both speaking and reading out loud. There were only 10 total students in my class, and I still remember Ms. Ruth sending me to a table in the corner by myself with a much thicker book than the rest of the class had. Now, you might be thinking to yourself, "But Jennie, this sounds amazing! What a gift you had! Isn't this what all parents would want for their kids?" Well, not so fast.
Hyperlexia is a learning difference, like its opposite dyslexia, so I had no idea what it meant to "read to myself," I struggled with comprehension, and I never learned phonics, which scientifically is the best way for students to learn how to read. When I got sent to the corner all by my lonesome, the only instruction Ms. Ruth gave me was "sit and read to yourself while I work with the rest of the class." I had zero clue what that directive meant, none. So I just sat and tried to read out loud as quietly as I could, whispering to myself. Ms. Ruth grew increasingly annoyed because she could still hear me, and the rest of the class couldn't focus on the words they were learning. Finally, she said, "Jennie, look at the words on the page with your eyes but don't move your mouth or make any sounds. You can see the words but hear them in your mind that way, and you won't disturb the class anymore." I thought she was showing me how to do a magic trick, and I would never need or want to leave my mind again. The only time I would tap her on the shoulder after that was if I came across a word that I had never seen before. And even then, she would simply tell me the word, never show me how to sound it out, and I would memorize it forever.
I graduated from kindergarten reading at the 4th grade level, and the attention and praise from school grown-ups and my parents started rolling in and really never stopped, all the way through 12th grade. Again, you might be thinking, "But Jennie, isn't that great? Didn't you love hearing how smart you are all the time?" And again, I tell you, not so fast. Sure, well-intentioned compliments were lovely, and I know these adults in my life thought they were doing something commendable by telling a little brown girl in the 1980s and 90s that she was smart and not just pretty because girl power and all that jazz. But the unintended impact on me was also that I became crippled by the eventuality that I would prove them wrong. If I am so naturally gifted, born this way, I shouldn't have to try, and if I don't try then I don't risk the possibility that I might not actually be that smart. I rarely, if ever, took learning risks in school, sticking to what I know, or at least not telling anyone if I did take a risk so that I wouldn't also have to report any failure, which would of course inevitably happen because that's how learning works. Every report card sent home, riddled with rows of B+ and B-, consistently included the same teacher comment: "Jennie is such a bright student, but if she applied herself more, she could reach her full potential." I was totally fine with being a slightly better than average student as long as no one doubted my intelligence.
Going to Failure — in the Gym
Fast forward to 2014, and I get it in my head to join a CrossFit gym. Another bit to know about me is I struggle with easing into something that I am excited about; I go all in, buy the t-shirt, become president of the fan club. At that point in my life, I got the idea to be "healthier" because my daughter was getting older, and I wanted to model that lifestyle for her. So I decided to join a gym, having never done so before and having no real athletic or fitness history whatsoever. But I can't join any ol' gym; I have to demonstrate to the outside world that I am pursuing peak performance, not trotting along on a treadmill. CrossFit at the time was getting popular and was terrifying the public with its extreme workouts where members regularly vomited or passed out from the rigor. The way my brain is wired, I took one look at that and thought to myself, "Yep. That's what I want. That's what I want to be able to say I did when lots of others couldn't."
One part of the CrossFit programming that I really grew to love and look forward to was weightlifting. I couldn't wait to get my hands around a barbell and watch my strength improve with every plate I stacked on the ends, so satisfying that kind of growth was to me. It also didn't hurt that I was showing my kid how beautiful physical strength can be and that I could often outlift some of the men in the gym. One of the most valuable and enduring lessons I have learned in the gym is the idea of going to failure. When we are working on maxing out a lift so that we can discover what is the heaviest we can currently lift in a single rep, we are required to work up to a weight that we know we likely can't pull off. So for example, if I am working on increasing my 1-rep max back squat, I start at a low weight, like less than 50% of my previous maximum number. Squat some reps there to warm-up and then incrementally add small jumps in weight, 5 or 10 lb. at a time, until I get to my previous max. If that's 160 lb., then I see if I can squat that weight more than once, and if I can, then I add some more weight to the bar, another 5 lb., and so on. When I add so many more plates and can't stand back up from the squat and have to bail out, then I have hit failure.
The gym has been the only place where I not only accept failure, but I also actively pursue it. I am chasing failure like it owes me money. Failing a lift is the only way I can ever know what I can actually squat or bench or deadlift or jerk over my head. Pushing myself physically past what I think I can do gets me out of my mind, where I am so comfortable and never want to leave. Failing is the only way to reach my full potential. With more than 10 years of weightlifting under my belt now, I've started to question why I don't view failure the same way, in and out of the gym. Why am I cool with it when it comes to a barbell but cannot even begin to consider it when it comes to my intellect?
All I've come up with so far is that I made the decision, based on consistent feedback from most folks I know, that I am naturally smart and not naturally strong. I decided somewhere along the way that that was my story, that I don't have to try to be smart but I do have to try to be strong. And at my big age of 47 today, I'm deciding I don't like that story anymore. I want to try. I want to find out what my max is in all aspects of life, even if it means going to failure. This newsletter is my way of adding plates to my brain barbell, and publishing it is my way of being accountable for my gains and my losses. I am scared and nervous and thrilled, but I'm doing it. This is me trying.