A Tale of Twists & Turns

Barefoot, sweating, I make my way down the loose rocky trail to a secluded beach, tossing my bag down before me. I need both hands for this climb.

I find a flat stretch of sand, lay out my towel and sit down. The water laps through a small opening in the cliff beside me.

"Perfect", I think, "No one will join me here".

At low tide, beaches along this coast connect but when it comes in they get cut off, accessible only to those who know another route.

I unravel the buns on top of my head and start to section out my hair, coating each part with my personal blend of oils. I take two strands and twist from my roots to my ends.

This is going to take some time.

I notice my restlessness at this thought and remind myself that this is a labour of love. The time has finally come for me to loc in the promises I have made for myself.

I've been planning this moment for some time. Just me, my coffee and the land. What a blessing it is to exist amongst such beauty.

The rocks, solid and unwavering, the ocean lapping against them, ever changing, formless. Yet they somehow co-exist.

It's funny, when I was younger, my life was consumed by rigidity. I did everything by the book, said what I was supposed to say, never colouring outside of the lines. I spent years trying to undo this, fighting to become more like the ocean, adaptable and impossible to contain. Now I watch the water meet the rock and wonder whether freedom has always needed something to hold it.

As I twist I remind myself of what I want to carry forwards.

I will not abandon my creativity for the comfort of being understood.

I will not force myself into one identity simply because it is easier to name.

I will follow my intuition, even when it leads me somewhere uncomfortable.

I mean every word I say. Living by them is another thing entirely.

I bury my feet, grounding myself.

My toes instantly feel the coolness of the sand just below the surface. I grab coffee from my bag and start to grind the beans. The familiarity of this motion calms me and I sink fully into the present. I brew myself a cup.

Since retiring from track, I keep facing the question of what I do now. I struggle to answer every time. It fills me with a deep shame that I can't seem to summarise what I do in a few simple words. I find myself stuttering, grappling at something to say that sounds somewhat coherent.

As if what I do equates to my value as a being.

After living my life in Olympic cycles, always having somewhere to be, someone to answer to, I wanted to take some time to surrender to the unknown. However now I am so lost I fear I'm never going to be found again. Experience tells me this is not the truth, that I will figure it out, but the day to day reality feels very different. I feel as though I am behind, an imposter simply pretending to know their direction.

I take a sip of my coffee and get up to stretch my legs. The sun now rising in the sky. I walk down to the water to cool off. It laps up against my shins as I section another piece of hair.

To be honest, I'm exhausted.

I've been living without permanence for so long. Constantly on the move, always in a different place. I want to put down roots but every time I'm on the cusp of becoming familiar with a place, I move.

It's like I don't really want to be known.

I enjoy the mystery. Commitment terrifies me. It sounds boring and I cannot fathom a boring life.

Growing up I never really got to introduce myself. Conversations were dominated by what it took to be an athlete, what kinds of foods I ate, what it was like competing on the world stage and whether I ever have a cheat day. I found comfort in this limited view of myself, hiding behind the easily answerable questions, giving the same robotic answer without having to think or be challenged.

What does it look like to be known?

To be in a place long enough that you develop real community with people seeing you in all phases of life.

I make my way back to my towel, sufficiently cool. I feel around to see how much I have left to twist.

I often find myself waking at 4am. I call them "The Cortisol Hours".

My eyes drift open to a familiar scene. I'm coated in a layer of sweat, t-shirt clinging to my cold, shivering body.

"Can I do this?"

"Will people show up?"

"Why did I choose this path and to go it alone?"

"Is this really something my community needs? Or even wants?"

I find no answers, so I stare at the ceiling. The room is dark but my eyes have adjusted. I see the pile of clothes waiting to be put away on the chair in the corner. I scold myself. I'm losing my grip. There's nothing that can be solved at 4am.Still, that tight feeling rises in my chest. I change my shirt and roll over to the dry side of my bed.

It's been a few hours now and there's still no end in sight. I repeat the same motion.

Section. Twist. Roll. Repeat.

Building a business has forced me to come face to face with many of my own demons. I thought I was a disciplined person but I've learnt that I am passionate and that there's a difference.

After so long being known for my physical prowess, I am now relying on my intellect. I keep having to remind myself that I worked on my craft for many years before I became a master of it.

I have an annoying habit of wanting to rush the process. I live so far ahead of myself that I am often frustrated with my present self's shortcomings. The work I'm doing now will take just as much time as becoming an Olympian did.

Passion is what drives me and I know that this is not enough. There is still so much knowledge that I lack.

I have an insatiable intensity about me, a spirit that refuses to be tamed. She screams to push forwards, always. But even she needs rest and when it comes it's not the gentle kind. It's a rest that matches her severity.

Complete silence. Detachment from everything. Long periods of solitude.

That in itself tells me all I need to know.

What is a rest that feels gentle?

I'm realising that these constant extremes do not bode well for consistency and consistency is, unfortunately, key. A big reason I retired from sports was the constant need to perform. Both literally and figuratively. I was trapped in a cycle of burnout. I'm realising I've simply replaced it with another.

I pull two more strands from the slowly shrinking bun. The further into the process I get, the quicker my hands move. Coated in almond oil, they glide through the next section with relative ease.

Lately I've found myself re-telling the same story. I was an athlete. I didn't want to be an athlete. So I re-defined myself.

This is only part of my reality.

I have a fear of people really knowing me. Not just the shiny bits but the unpolished bits too. A fear of being accepted as a whole.

Although I am an open book, very few people have seen me in the throws of the experience. I'm great at telling the story after the fact, at curating it to be neat and vulnerable enough that it's relatable. I suck at being seen in the moment of crisis. I always do this part in solitude.

It is not lost on me that I am creating a space for women to tell their stories. A place where I ask my community to show up and bare their souls.

Does this work not require for me to do the same?

To facilitate the depth of conversation and discussion that I yearn for, do I not need to expose my own budding ideas? The ones that are not yet fully formed?

Do I not need to ask the uncomfortable questions?

To show up week after week, month after month, year after year?

To be seen through all my cycles?

Who am I without something to chase?

I take another sip of coffee and realise it has gone cold. I pour it onto the sand next to me as one last offering to the Earth that has held me through this process.

I'm down to my final twists now, my arms are tired and I'm bored of the monotony of the whole thing. I separate the final strands and twist from my roots to my ends. The water has crept closer to my towel. Soon, this part of the beach will disappear beneath the tide.

I roll the final twist between my palms and begin to gather my things.

I say I want peace, but thunderstorms are still my favourite weather. Perhaps I have spent so long living in chaos that boredom feels like dying.

I grab my bag, my new locs still soft with oil.

I do not yet know how to remain once the excitement has passed. But today, I stayed long enough to finish.

For now, that is enough.

Written by Jodie Williams