Linsday Vonn just crashed. A horrific twist, roll, and slide down an unforgiving ski racecourse. Her latest knee injury is only eight days old. She was the Olympic phenom to watch. Her age (41), multiple crashes and surgeries, and a trophy case of medals are reported upon over and over again by sports announcers around the world. We all held our breath as she lunged out of the start hut, the favourite to win Gold, and hurled herself down the pitch of the Italian Alps. Moments later, she was airlifted to a hospital. Again. There was a layer of surreal silence with heads bowed, furrowed brows, and some wiping away tears. A temporary darkness had descended over the bluebird day in Cortina.
I am equal parts perplexed and understanding of her decision to compete. The questions in my head centre around her most recent torn knee ligament and the cumulative trauma, injuries and surgeries inflicted upon her body from a lifetime of training and ski racing. The understanding comes from knowing the power and demands of the human ego.
Her public persona is one of a fearless and talented competitor, invincible survivor, and comeback queen of the snow. Typical of elite athletes, her childhood focused on a single sport, instilled passion and drive to excellence, and the acquired identity that accompanies success. We all know the personal stories and media heartbreak of a career-ending injury. When your body and athletic skills define your past and present, what happens when they fail? Who will you be tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that?
I am not, nor ever was, an elite athlete. I do, however, know the lost and panicked feeling of what now, what’s next, and who am I? I see and hear it in my community as we all face retirement, lifestyle and family shifts, and our bodies become less compliant. The tether of attachment to our work role, busyness, productivity, and a paycheque, defines who we are. The notion of stopping seems unfathomable and uncomfortable.
In my mid 40’s, I left a lucrative and successful capital markets career. My physical and emotional health screamed time out, my brain and ego fought back, for two years. The position, power, and pay padded my ego and bound me to my title – that’s who I was. The day I resigned I told our six-year-old that I no longer worked at the bank – he asked who I would be if I wasn’t a banker. Our teenager was concerned; I have expenses, you know. Our middle child was thrilled – I would finally be home when she woke up in the morning, and I would be home at lunchtime. I didn’t know what I would be or do. “What’s next?” was daunting.
The process of transition, being in the liminal space, and exploring our identity is what I believe intrepid aging is all about. There are some who count down the years, months and days until being set free into retirement. For others, it looms, more as a sentencing. The degree of attachment to our professional identity and ego determines our mindset and emotions around this transition.
I imagine that Lindsay may have had some of these existential struggles. She participated in her first World Cup race at the age of 16. Ski racer is her singular identity, despite injuries leading her to a temporary retirement, before returning five years later. She is known around the world as a beautiful woman in a downhill suit, helmet and goggles, her muscled body folded over her skis as she travels down an impossibly steep incline at speeds over 100km/hr. Her name and success have garnered millions of dollars in sponsorships. I wonder if she felt she had an option not to risk another race. I doubt it. By handing her body over to the downhill racecourse, she committed to one more win. Sadly, the ski Gods had a different plan. Perhaps this is a call for all of us to examine our identity bondage. Is it guiding me to where I want and need to be, or keeping me stuck? What am I missing or endangering by feeding the demands of my defined self-image. It’s an interesting self-exploration. I found out that when I was no longer a banker, I could become an executive coach, a speaker, and a writer. Time and priorities shifted. I now crave the ambiguity