Courage to Soar (with Bonus Content)

by Simone Biles

  One said, “I want to apologize to the Americans girls. I didn’t want to sound rude or racist. I love Simone and I’m a huge fan of USA gymnastics.”

  Another one stated “I’ve made a mistake, I’m not perfect, I was too nervous and I didn’t think about what I was saying. I’m just a human. I’m so so sorry.”

  But even as Carlotta was trying to apologize for the whole affair, a spokesperson for the Italian Gymnastics Federation released a statement on Facebook that just made the situation worse: “Carlotta was referring to a trend in gymnastics at this moment, which is going towards a technique that opens up new chances to athletes of color (well-known for power) while penalizing the more artistic Eastern European style that allowed Russians and Romanians to dominate the sport for years.” And he said some other things too, which I won’t bother repeating here. Let’s just say he was pretty off the mark.

  I had easily brushed off what Carlotta said, but the Italian Gymnastics spokesperson’s statement did bother me a bit. It implied that a power gymnast could not also be artistic and graceful, and also that power and grace were somehow tied to a person’s race. I absolutely didn’t agree. I’d known celebrated white gymnasts known for their power, like Mary Lou Retton and Shawn Johnson, and black gymnasts praised for their flowing grace, like Dominque Dawes and Gabby Douglas. The point is, all these gymnasts possessed both power and grace, and it had nothing to do with their race.

  A few days later, the president of the Italian Gymnastic Federation released a new statement apologizing for everything, and people finally moved on. I was glad to put the whole thing behind me, because I wanted every child, regardless of race, to be able to look at my Worlds win and say, I can dream big too. I wanted them to know that following your dreams—not just in gymnastics, but in everything—shouldn’t have anything to do with the color of your skin. It should only be about finding the discipline and the courage to do the hard work.

  My brother Ron told me that when he saw me win Worlds, he dropped to his knees in front of his TV and cried. He was blown away. Speechless. All he could think was, Oh my God, she did it. My sister is the number one gymnast in the world. He said he was even a little starstruck when I got home. I thought he was being silly, but I remembered when Ron had called me after I’d failed to make Nationals the first time. I could still hear him saying, “Maybe it’s just not your time yet, but your day will come. You’re that good, Simone.” I’d been so grateful for his belief in me then.

  Now he asked me, “How does it feel to win?”

  I shrugged, because I still hadn’t taken it in.

  “I want to go to the Olympics,” I said, not really answering his question. “That’s my new goal.”

  Ron threw his head back and laughed. “That’s right, Simone!” he said, nodding his head. “You keep dreaming, girl!”

  The following weekend, my parents held a big Worlds Party to celebrate my win. There were about four hundred people in our courtyard and backyard and around our pool, and more people were inside the house. Tables were covered with barbecue chicken and ribs, rice and beans, egg rolls, and so many other dishes. We’d hired a caterer to add to the food my mom cooked, and a bartender to set up and serve the drinks. We even booked a DJ for the occasion. As he played music from some of my favorite artists, like Drake and Rihanna, I went around the party greeting everyone.

  All afternoon, aunts and uncles, cousins, coworkers of my parents, neighbors, teammates, coaches, and friends wanted my autograph or to pose for selfies with me. I kept a smile on my face, but I was overwhelmed. Meanwhile, all the TVs inside the house were running video of my routines at Worlds, and people would stand around the screens and cheer me on, as if it was happening right then. And everyone had a million questions for me. I loved that they were happy for my win, but it was a lot being the center of so much attention.

  There would be other parties to celebrate other wins in the years to come, but none would ever feel as intense to me as that first Worlds Party. The only place in the house where I could find a corner of quiet was my bedroom, so at one point during the festivities, I disappeared into my room and locked my door. I just sat on my bed, breathing, listening to the sounds of the party, and refreshing. I checked my Twitter, Instagram, and Snapchat accounts to see what my friends in other places were up to, and I exchanged a few messages with a boy gymnast my age named Alec Yoder, who’d tweeted me, “Congrats on Worlds!” We had several friends in common, and we’d recently started tweeting each other back and forth every day. It had become a friendly contest, to see which one of us would break the daily streak first. I was looking forward to meeting Alec in person at the Houston National Invitational in three months.

  After twenty minutes or so of playing around on my phone, I was ready to go back out to the party. But as I started to head back out, I noticed the bag with the turtles I’d taken with me to Worlds sitting in the corner. I’d never unpacked it. I opened it and spread the six turtle figurines on the bed, including the little ladybug turtle that had brought me good luck. Then I decided to unpack the rest of the bag—my sneakers and tracksuits and leos and street clothes. I turned on the radio to listen to music while I put everything away, and right as I did that, the hit song “Burn” by pop artist Ellie Goulding came on.

  That song took me right back to the Worlds arena in Antwerp, because it had been blasted over the sound system a hundred times a day during training. And now, coincidentally, it was playing on my radio. I’d heard the song so many times, I knew all the words by heart, so I began to sing along:

  We’ll be raising our hands, shining up to the sky ’

  Cause we got the fire, fire, fire . . .

  Suddenly, everything I’d just gone through came rushing in: the exhaustion from the Worlds competition, the dreamlike medal ceremony, the girls with whom I’d shared the win, my parents looking on in disbelief and joy, my brothers being so happy for me, the photographers, the press, the Italians, Aimee, Martha, all of it. In that moment, the full force of what I had done finally hit me.

  I had competed at Worlds. And won.

  I really just did that!

  As cheerful voices and bursts of laughter from my Worlds Party floated in through my window, mixing with the rhythm of “Burn,” I collapsed onto my bedroom floor and started bawling. I was just so proud of myself. And somewhere in there, I also had this thought—I’m getting a belly ring.

  CHAPTER 16

  The Warehouse

  “Change is hard at first, messy in the middle, and gorgeous at the end.”

  —ROBIN SHARMA, WRITER

  I marched into St. James the Apostle Church that Sunday in a line of teenagers with solemn faces. It was a few weeks after Worlds, and in a way, our procession reminded me of a medal ceremony, except that no gold, silver, and bronze medals would be given out. Instead, our prize would be something much more powerful: in a few moments, each of us would bow our heads to receive the Holy Sacrament of Confirmation. For Catholics, this moment signifies you have been fully welcomed into the Christian faith community, and that you have pledged to let God’s love and grace guide you always.

  “Be sealed with the gift of the Holy Spirit,” the bishop said as I stood before him with my hands clasped. Using his thumb, he drew the sign of the cross on my forehead with sacred oil and said a prayer for my soul.

  “Amen,” I whispered when he was done.

  “Peace be with you,” he said.

  “And also with you,” I replied before turning and walking back to the pew at the front of the sanctuary, where my confirmation class was seated. As I watched each member of my class take a turn at the altar, I thought about the patron saint I’d chosen as my own the week before, when the bishop interviewed me to assess my spiritual readiness. St. Sebastian had been named the patron saint of athletes and soldiers, because he’d been forced to endure extreme physical trials in his life but was able to heal quickly from his injuries. He’s known as the saint who keeps athletes safe and healthy, w
hich is exactly what I needed at the time. I was actually healing from an injury.

  In all my confirmation photographs, you can see two little Band-Aids on my right ankle. I’m all dressed up in a little black dress with small lace cutouts at the waist, and wearing heels, and then there are those Band-Aids. I’d recently undergone surgery on that ankle to remove a bone spur. It was a lingering effect from the injury I’d sustained at the Secret Classic in Chicago, when I’d landed short on a rotation and jammed my ankles into the mat, but the ankle still bothered me when I landed just a little bit wrong on a dismount, or when I was tired. On my final floor exercise at Worlds, I’d felt a sharp pain every time I came down from a tumbling sequence. My parents scheduled me for ankle surgery a couple of weeks later.

  It was a simple procedure to scope out the calcium buildup, but the doctor explained I’d be put to sleep with anesthesia. He also had me remove my brand-new belly ring; I’d had my belly button pierced just two days before. (Trust me, my mom and I did our research, and we finally chose a place that had a five-star rating and tons of rave reviews.) I was thrilled with my silver belly ring, but now my doctor was telling me that if they had to use a defibrillator to revive me during surgery, the metal in that belly ring could lead to electrocution. So I removed it. No big deal; I’d be wearing it again by the next day. I was way more worried about the operation itself. I’d never undergone any kind of surgery, and to be honest, I was terrified. What if something went wrong and I couldn’t do gymnastics anymore?

  “Will my parents be with me when I wake up?” I asked the doctor.

  “No,” he said. “We don’t want anyone talking in the room before you wake up. We want you to come out of the anesthesia on your own.”

  So then I asked the nurse to make sure a blanket my mother had given me one Christmas would go with me into surgery. It had cute little monkeys on the fabric and a fringe of tied-off edges. I was obsessed with that blanket. I just kept saying, “My blanket’s got to go in with me, okay? Promise you’ll make sure it goes with me into surgery.” The nurse promised, and sure enough when I woke up, the blanket was covering me.

  “All right, Simone,” the doctor said before discharging me later that afternoon, “you’ll probably feel some pain and soreness around that ankle, so we’re sending you home with pain medicine and an orthopedic boot. You’ll be on crutches for about three weeks.”

  Although I hadn’t yet chosen St. Sebastian as my patron saint, he must have been working overtime, because I felt hardly any pain in my ankle after surgery. That’s why I ditched the crutches two days later. The Sunday of my confirmation, I begged my mom to let me take off the ortho boot and put on heels. She agreed under one condition: the Band-Aids had to stay. The following week, I forgot about the ankle completely as I raced down the hallway, laughing and chasing Adria in some game we were playing. “Simone, stop running!” Mom shouted from the living room. That’s when I remembered I was still recovering from surgery.

  Through it all, I only missed two days in the gym, although I only worked on uneven bars and upper body conditioning until the doctor cleared me to do more. Since that time, the ankle has never again troubled me. St. Sebastian—he’s my kind of saint.

  Coach Aimee and Coach Tomas didn’t seem to be getting along. I didn’t know (and still don’t know) what their disagreement was about, but they were barely talking. The coldness between them would turn fiery hot just a few weeks later.

  One afternoon in February 2014, Adria and I came into the gym and Aimee didn’t give us any workout assignments. There were about ten of us team members—mostly level eights, nines, and tens—waiting for instructions. Instead, Aimee said, “You guys can have free time today.”

  That had never happened.

  All the other girls started cheering, “Woohoo! Free time! Yeah!”

  But something wasn’t right.

  “You guys, doesn’t this seem weird to you?” I said.

  “Nah, she’s just being awesome!” they insisted.

  Adria and I and the rest of the team ran through a few of our routines, and the whole time I was waiting for Aimee to come out and send us to do the stair circuit, because it was stair day. But she never came. Finally, I went with a couple of the other girls to look for her. I found her talking to another one of our coaches in the back.

  “Aimee, so what are we doing for conditioning today?” I said.

  “I don’t care,” she said. “Do whatever you want.”

  One of the girls said, “All right, let’s go jump on a chair!” She was joking, of course, but I knew that whatever was going on didn’t seem one bit funny.

  “Guys, this is weird,” I said again.

  “Why do you keep saying that?” someone responded. “Just have some fun, Simone. Don’t be so serious!”

  A few minutes later, everyone could hear Tomas and Aimee arguing loudly, and then Aimee picked up her bag and left. I can’t recall what they were saying; all I remember is being stunned and panicked when I saw Aimee leave.

  A few of us went over to Tomas and asked him what was going on.

  “Coach Aimee just walked out,” he said. He seemed upset and a little dazed. “I think Coach Aimee just quit the gym.”

  Everyone let out a huge gasp. None of us had seen this coming. By now you know that whenever I feel anything strongly, whether that’s fear, sadness, anger, or joy, my default is to cry. I ran to the bathroom because I knew tears were about to overflow, and I didn’t want to add to the chaos in the gym. I found my cell phone in my bag and, while sobbing hard, I called my mom.

  “Mom, Coach Aimee just left. I don’t think she’s coming back.”

  “I heard,” Mom said. “She just called me. I’m going to meet her now.”

  “What should Adria and I do?” I said. “Nobody’s coaching us here.”

  Mom thought for a moment. “There’s a faith formation class this afternoon at church,” she said finally. “Why don’t you and Adria go there right now?”

  “Should we clear out our lockers?” I asked. I already knew that if Aimee was leaving, I wanted to go with her. But that made me sad, because it would mean leaving all my friends at Bannon’s. It was the only gym Adria and I had ever known.

  Mom was levelheaded, as she has always been. “Just leave everything as it is for now,” she said. “There’s no need to be dramatic here. Just explain to Tomas that I told you girls to go to church. We’ll talk about everything tonight.”

  After letting Tomas know we were leaving, I drove Adria and myself to church for catechism class. Both our eyes were red. When the priest asked me to read something to our group, I suddenly started crying again. As soon as Adria saw me crying, she started to sob too.

  “Are you okay?” the priest asked us. He’d never seen Adria and me so upset. As far as he knew, we were two happy-go-lucky girls.

  I shook my head. “N-n-not really, but I can’t talk about it,” I said.

  “Why don’t you go outside for a bit?” he suggested.

  My sister and I spent the rest of the two-hour catechism class sitting in my car in the parking lot. We didn’t speak. We just sat there running through scenarios in our minds, trying to figure out what came next.

  When we got home, we found out that Mom had spent the afternoon with Aimee at her house, the two of them talking in her living room. Aimee let my mom know she’d decided to leave Bannon’s and find another gym, and she was hoping our family would go with her.

  Mom didn’t even ask Aimee why she left. She didn’t want to get in the middle of whatever was going on with her and Tomas. Mom knew Aimee had been at Bannon’s for nearly two decades. Aimee had started in 1997, the same year I was born, and she’d gotten married and had her three sons while working there. My mom figured if Aimee had decided to leave now, she must have her reasons. Instead of questioning her about them, my mom addressed the only issue that directly affected our family—whether Adria and I would stay at Bannon’s or go with Aimee to her new gym.

&nb
sp; “Well, it’s not just what Ron and I think,” she told Aimee. “It’s whether the girls want to go with you. It’s really their choice.” Then Mom asked her, “So where are you thinking of going?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Aimee admitted. “This is all very sudden, so I don’t have a plan. I wanted to discuss it with you first.”

  Mom jokes now that she must have temporarily lost her mind that day, because the next thing out of her mouth was this:

  “Well, why don’t I build my own gym?” she said. Aimee stared at her. “That way, Simone and Adria can have a safe and well-equipped place to train and they won’t have to gym hop. I really don’t want my girls to have to do that.”

  Mom says the idea just popped into her head out of nowhere, but the more she considered it, the more it began to sound like a good plan. Soon, right there in Aimee’s living room, the two began excitedly figuring out just how they’d make it happen.

  “How much land would we need?” Mom asked, thinking out loud. “Maybe four acres? Okay”—she snapped open her laptop—“let’s see what’s available around here.” That very afternoon, while Adria and I were moping in the church parking lot, my mom called some brokers and arranged to see a few plots of land for sale nearby. She looked at several pieces of property before the broker showed her a four-acre lot not far from our home.

  “It’s perfect,” Mom said.

  My dad had traveled to see a football game in Detroit that week, so Mom called him that Saturday and told him about her crazy plan. “Ron, we’re building a gym,” she said, and then she gave him the backstory. On Monday when Dad returned, Mom showed him the four-acre plot of land. Two days after that, they actually signed a contract to purchase it.

  By this time, Mom had already told Adria and me that Aimee was definitely leaving Bannon’s. Mom asked us what we wanted to do. Adria decided she wanted to finish out her level eight season at Bannon’s before moving to another gym, but I was sure I wanted to go with Aimee right away. At the same time, I wanted to finish out the week at Bannon’s so that I could say good-bye to everyone. I’d learned a lot from all my coaches and teammates there, and I was grateful for all of it.