I felt fitter than ever before. I was at an all-time high. I wanted to fly straight to the Games from Albany. I was ready for my rematch with Madison.
* * *
Before the Games, O’Keefe again invited me to dinner for a difficult conversation. He had been helping me secure a green card, and had run into some issues with the U.S. Department of Immigration. He left me a voice mail. He said it was urgent. We were on a timeline and this was kind of serious.
“Hey, Kat, call me ASAP. They said there was an issue with your birth certificate. It’s weird, but I think they have you mixed up with someone else. No big deal, we will get this figured out. Just call me when you can.”
O’Keefe sounded confused, but I knew exactly what was going on. I would need to shed light on a small fragment of my past in order to complete my business with the U.S. government. I felt a knot in my stomach. It’s something that I don’t talk about very much. But if there was anyone I could confide in, it was Matt O’Keefe. Besides, this was clearly going to extend beyond my confidants and friends if I wanted that green card.
The name on my birth certificate is Katrin Tanja Sigurgeirsdottir.
David is my dad. But not my biological father.
My biological father was my mother’s boyfriend when they were very young. Their relationship was short. My mom lived in England with her parents and only spent summers in Iceland. Shortly after arriving home, however, she discovered that she was pregnant with me.
It was never any secret and I always knew of him. We had some contact when I was very young. Most of it was through my grandmother on that side—his mother. She loved being involved in my life and we would often send them home videos of me from London. Sadly she passed away when I was only about a year old. That kind of limited our contact. After all, he was a seventeen-year-old who had just lost his mom.
I’m still in frequent contact with his family—especially his mom’s sister. She always invites me over for Christmas and other holidays. Birthday invitations are always extended as well.
He passed away when I was sixteen. I’m unclear on the details and don’t really know what happened.
The funeral process was strange for me, and felt forced. My mom asked me to meet with the priest, who was trying to learn more about the person he’d be eulogizing. I didn’t have much to offer at the time and it was hard for me to listen.
“You’ll thank me for this later,” my mom said.
She was right. I really do value the memories and stories from that experience. There was family and old friends. I felt like I got a glimpse into the person he had been. I didn’t know him at all, so the stories I heard at the funeral were uplifting to me. They talked about him when he was a kid. He had platinum-blond hair and was witty and funny. He lived his life in the moment, never coveting things or time, and always eager to share with everyone.
I loved hearing what people had to say about him as a kid and as a teenager. I felt like I would have wanted to know him.
My bonds with his family are strong. Even though I only see them once or twice a year, I care for them very much. They are a really fun family. Most of the girls in the family are dancers, and it always cracks me up because they are so tiny. It makes me feel like I’m a complete Viking in comparison. They are amazing, and I feel lucky I am related to them.
My real dad, the one I’ve grown up calling Daddy, entered my life when I was just a few months old. He raised me and loved me. He did all the hard work of raising me and my siblings. He taught me how to interact with the world. He showed me the stars at night and taught me about the aurora borealis. I was never legally adopted, but in my heart and my mind I have always been Davidsdottir.
I don’t need a piece of paper to tell me that.
EPILOGUE
KAIZEN
Failure shows us the way—by showing us what isn’t the way.
—RYAN HOLIDAY, THE OBSTACLE IS THE WAY
I awake in another foreign bed in another foreign room. I get up, stretch, begin a general accounting of my sore body parts, then give up when I lose count. It’s nothing new. This is my sixth Games. I’m accustomed to the physical assault that is the test of fitness. The similarities to last year end with my physical discomfort. This bed and hotel might be foreign to me, but I feel at home in my own skin. And my confidence is soaring. My mind belongs to me again.
I misjudged Madison on our first date. I blamed the new venue for my doubt and uncertainty. I was distressed about the move away from California, the place where I had built my career and won championships. I convinced myself that the magic of my past Games was trapped in the StubHub Center in Carson.
What a difference a year can make.
It took me until the end of last year’s competition—during the 2223 Intervals event—to understand that my magic doesn’t exist inside a venue. It’s something I create for myself—on and off the competition floor. Through this lens, I see the same magic everywhere. I’ve felt it flow through friends gathered in gyms, parks, and garages, urging each other to push further than they want, then celebrating the results of their shared suffering.
The uncertainty, Ben and I realized, had come from a lack of preparation. Carson, Columbus, or Calcutta wouldn’t have changed that. Preparation is my nuclear weapon. When I showed up without it last year, I felt like a superhero stripped of her powers.
Not this year.
I reinvented myself, yet again, with Ben’s help. Regionals were proof. I didn’t just win—I nearly swept the competition. I attacked with the ferocity I had longed for at last year’s Games. I sprinted when others ran, attacked when others merely survived. My discomfort in the gym was rewarded under the lights.
As I braid my hair, a knock on the door signals Ben’s arrival. Our ritual has become second nature. For the most part, things are falling into place. We’re executing perfectly.
On the final day of this year’s Games, I’m in it. Despite two events where I finished near the back of the pack, I’ve had some shining moments. I’ve won two events and been top five in at least four others. As usual, I don’t know exactly where I’m sitting on the leaderboard, but I know I’m in the mix for the podium.
I also know enough to realize today is going to be a street fight. Getting back on the podium is going to require top finishes across the board, no matter what’s thrown at me. I’m especially excited for this morning’s event:
TWO-STROKE PULL
5 rounds:
300-mile run
15-calorie Assault Bike
44-foot sled pull
I see it as an opportunity to redeem my poor showing in last year’s Madison Triplet. I plan to reclaim ownership of Sunday mornings at the Games.
“Stomp the gas and keep it there,” announcer Sean Woodland booms over the television broadcast. “This one is all about engine!”
Sean’s assessment is accurate. There’s nothing fancy or strategic about this one—it’s all gas, no brakes.
The 300-meter run course is virtually identical to last year’s Madison Triplet.
Good, I think as I attack the first run.
I immediately establish myself as the leader in a heat of twenty women. I stay aggressive on the bike and pull like my life depends on it when I get my hands on the 153-pound sled. Afterward, I head out for the second run at a pace that borders on reckless. Annie and Brooke Wells are the only chasers I can see as I round the first corner.
I continue to extend my lead over the second and third rounds, pushing the pace on the run and bike, daring anyone to match my pace. I’m shocked to see Laura Horvath, the Hungarian rookie, appear next to me on the Assault Bike in Round 4. Laura is the new kid on the block at the Games, but I’ve competed against her at Regionals before. She catches me on the sled pull and rockets out of the stadium.
I try to catch her on the run but can’t match her pace. When I return to the stadium, she has a 3-calorie lead on the bike. For a brief moment, I feel the urge to pull back and let her go. It’s
the little voice in the back of my head that plants doubt.
I glance at my forearm as I mount the Assault Bike and find motivation in the bracelet wrapped around it. This year the bracelet is white. White is a physical representation of an ethos we follow at CFNE: “Never whine, never complain, never make excuses.” The reminder strengthens my resolve for one final charge. I grind on the pedals of the Assault Bike. I feel like I’m pulling with my soul. Alarm bells are sounding. I shut them down. I’m not thinking—just going.
The crowd erupts when I get off the bike first. My limbs feel like they’re made of bricks, but I will myself to jog toward the sled. Laura sprints past me. I fight to stay alive, pulling my sled across the line before collapsing. I finish second in the heat and third in the event. I’m smiling inside. I didn’t win, but I was proud of my effort. That was everything I had, physically and mentally.
As we debrief the event in the warm-up area, our whole team is smiling. In the midst of this physical battle, everyone is laughing and having fun. I realize we’re a bunch of lunatics to love this so much. Not just the people in the room, either. There are fans camping outside the arena in tents and RVs, working out in their downtime and supporting us on the field whether we are first or last. They are completely insane, and I’ve never loved them more.
For my team, in particular, I’m happy we all enjoy this journey. It means everything to me that we embrace the preparation as much as the big show. I don’t know what I would do without them. I am thankful I have this opportunity to do what I love most with the people I care about most. The time, effort, and love my coaches put into me every single day—along with the support that my family and friends show me throughout the whole year—is flooring. My heart wants to burst.
Next up is an event including heavy-rope double-unders and handstand walking through obstacles. I have an outstanding history with handstand walks in competition.
I cruise through the first two segments, sprinting through the slalom. I take my time up and down the stairs. The final obstacle is the trickiest: two ramps sandwiching a set of parallel bars. As I take a moment to recover, I see Kari Pearce shoot out ahead. I have competed with Kari for years at the East Regional. She’s a strong gymnast and great on her hands. But her gamble doesn’t pay off. She bobbles in the middle of the bars, loses her balance, and goes head over heels onto the far pad. I kick up to seize the moment and jump onto the finishing platform after successfully, albeit cautiously, navigating the bars.
I look down the line to see Brooke Wells smiling back at me! She won the event. This is unexpected. There were a few areas where I could have pushed, but that would have risked disaster. In addition to Brooke, three women from earlier heats also finished ahead of me. Still, I’m happy with my performance. I felt fresh for the big finale.
The 2018 Games’ final event ushers in the return of the pegboard. How fitting. The last time pegboards were in the final event, it was also do or die.
I walk out onto the floor and can tell from my lane assignment that I’m either in third or fourth. There’s no room for error.
I go unbroken on the pegboard. Last year we played it too safe, so I flirt with disaster. As soon as my feet hit the mat, I take off again up the board. I could hit the wall at any moment, but I don’t. I’m prepared this year. I trust my training.
I’m third off the pegboard, behind Tia and Laura, who are already working on their thrusters. I close the gap, but they take first and second, respectively, and I cross the line third. I smile. Tia and Laura taking first and second guarantees that I’ve finished third overall.
Third.
Dave calls my name and I step back on the podium for the first time since being crowned champion in 2016. I high five and hug Laura and Tia as they ascend next to me.
As I stand there, Icelandic flag draped across my back, opposing emotions do battle in my head. I didn’t come here for third place, and standing below two other women stings. But I feel proud. Unlike last year, this was my best effort. We walk away from this season with a heart full of incredible memories. There is no doubt that this was everything I had. I could not have been more prepared. This was the hardest I have ever worked in my entire life. I am really proud of that.
It occurs to me—not for the first time—how far I’ve come as an athlete and a person since that terrible day in 2014 when I sobbed on the competition floor. It also occurs to me that I never could have gotten here without that experience. Failure has been the key ingredient to my success in sports and in life. Had I not known failure, I would have continued to accept “good enough.” I might be a mediocre lawyer or athlete. Instead, I’m a two-time CrossFit Games champion. Everything happens for a reason.
* * *
The community came first.
Before the Games, television shows and star athletes, there were all of you. Getting to share my journey with you is a gift, and I don’t take that for granted. The amazing community built around this sport constantly inspires me. Ben founded CFNE five years before I picked up my first barbell, and the originals were practicing CrossFit before I could walk. I feel like my efforts are a representation and a tribute to the entire CrossFit community. The same way you all lift me up and support me, I find inspiration from all the people who reach out to tell me about their accomplishments I helped inspire. I find as much joy in your first pull-ups and Fran PRs as I do from standing on the podium. None of my success would be possible without the community.
Through it all, I get to inspire others to be better versions of themselves. That is the biggest blessing of all. If I learned anything from Amma, it’s that every interaction is significant; it can leave a lasting impression on a person’s heart.
My friend Dr. Sean Rockett is an orthopedic surgeon, a leader on the medical team at the CrossFit Games and one of CFNE’s original members. Shortly after the 2017 Games, he sent me an email. The subject line simply read: “You are changing lives.” Inside, I found a young lady’s college essay that Sean’s colleague had shared with him.
Anxiety and depression had plagued her young life. She was doing the bare minimum in all aspects of her life. She was in a bad place. After a lot of coaxing, her aunt dragged her into a CrossFit gym. She couldn’t reject the enthusiasm and camaraderie of the community. Eventually she joined. She was motivated by my words in the documentary Fittest on Earth to become a better version of herself. She changed everything—not just in CrossFit, but in all aspects of her life. Her confidence soared and she was accomplishing things unimaginable to her just a few short years earlier. Sean signed the email with a note of encouragement:
What a story. Beautiful and congrats for being a role model to thousands of beautiful young girls and ladies who are finding their way in life. Sean
I was moved to tears. And overwhelmed with gratitude. It’s a huge privilege to be “Katrin Davidsdottir,” and I will never take that lightly. It makes me want to be a better athlete. It makes me want to reach more people. I wish Amma could have seen this; it would have made her proud. Inspiring others is what I live for.
There is a Japanese word that Ben talks about sometimes. Kaizen. It doesn’t have an English equivalent, but it translates loosely to “change for the better” or “continuous improvement.” I love that. If I’ve learned anything from this journey, it’s this: There is no destination that we can ever arrive at. There is no end point, just constant improvement. We work to become the best, and right now, it’s time to get strong.
Here’s to my team, which you are now part of! I am the luckiest girl in the world.
And we are just getting started.
Helgi Ágústsson (Afi) and me as a baby, circa 1994. This was taken in London, where Afi served as the ambassador of Iceland from 1989 to 1995. He served the same role in Denmark (1999–2002) and the United States (2002–2006). (Courtesy of the author.)
Three generations of Dottirs. Me, my mom, and Amma in London, circa 1994. Afi was the ambassador to the United Kingdom. Mom was in school, so
I spent my days with Amma. We would visit Mom at her school during breaks. (Courtesy of the author.)
The Icelandic landscape is like nothing else on earth. Black sand beaches, geysers, volcanoes, and waterfalls make it feel like another planet. This is me by Goðafoss, one of Iceland’s most visited sites, when I was six. (Courtesy of the author.)
West Palm Beach, 2018, with my agent, Matt O’Keefe. His athletes call him “Dad,” because he looks after us so well. He is a pillar of my support system, and I wouldn’t be where I am without him. (Courtesy of the author.)
Breakfast at the Games has become a tradition and whoever can make it will join. The only rule is that we don’t talk about the Games. (L–R: Afi, my mom, me, Ben, and Heather Bergeron). Manhattan Beach, Marriott, 2016. (Courtesy of the author.)
My youngest sibling, BKjörgvin poses with me and Annie Thorisdottir at the 2013 Regionals, in Copenhagen. Annie was not competing due to injury. (Jens Koch)
We have a tradition of getting our nails done the Monday before the games. This time it almost made me late for the Monday Athlete Dinner with Dave Castro. Madison, Wisconsin, July 31, 2017. (Courtesy of the author.)
With my father, David. Morocco, summer 2014. This trip followed my failure at the 2014 Regionals. Dad loves to see the world and show it to us. We traveled often with him. (Courtesy of the author.)
Chris Hinshaw took a chance on me after the 2012 Games. His impact on my success has been enormous. Natick High School track, 2018. (Courtesy of the author.)
Annie and Frederik encouraged me to fly and compete in the Butcher’s Classic. It was my first big competition and I took first. I was thrilled by the whole experience. February 5, 2012, Copenhagen, Denmark. (Jens Koch)
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