It was deadlift time. “Do you want to know anything about the strategy?” Matt Gary asked. I thought about it for a moment. “No, whatever you put on the bar I’m going to lift it, so do your thing.” I had contributed to choosing the weight for my failed third bench press attempt and learned my lesson that I need to stick with my plan: This is the one area of my life in which I do not make decisions. The coach makes decisions, and I execute.

Matt and his wife, Sioux-z Hartwig-Gary, had several athletes competing at Nationals, so when Matt said he’d be back shortly, I didn’t think anything of it. I just assumed he was headed off to support one of the women I had adopted as my day-of teammates.

I knew I was in the mix to medal. I had done my homework before the meet and had a sense of how I might stack up. If I could squat my pre-knee injury PR, I might even be in the mix for first place. I had done that, so I knew I was set up well for a top-3 finish.

The competition area at Nationals was fantastic. The stage was lit up, and I could kind of see the people in the audience, but the lights narrowed my focus. I could feel the adrenaline of performing but it was easy to focus on the bar. My heart rate stayed elevated through the first two deadlifts, which I was glad for — it meant I was staying activated. I don’t quite remember what I was thinking about. I’m a big believer in visualization, so I probably did a little visualization, but I think mostly I tried to keep my mind fairly clear. I took a little time to recover from the lift, moved around a little, went through the ritual of dusting my legs with baby powder and chalking my hands, and tried to stay open to and continue feeling the adrenaline.

My third lift was up. I had no idea what was on the bar and didn’t care. Matt was standing right next to the ref, who smiled and said, “The bar is loaded.” Matt looked straight at me and yelled, “This is for the win!” My heart just lifted with excitement, and I felt a surge of determination and eagerness to get my hands on the bar.

I stepped out on the platform and went through my ritual. Feet situated. Hands on the knurling. Bend until my shins bump the bar. Breathe. Snap the upper back into place, build tension through my whole body, and just stand up. I distinctly remember my back rounding just a little bit as I started to pull, which sent up a warning flag in my mind. But another voice immediately dismissed that feedback and said, “Don’t react to that. Don’t adjust.” I knew with absolute certainty I had the lift, so I just kept moving and the bar accelerated.

I don’t remember it feeling hard, just that little bit of feedback about my back rounding. I got the down command. Took a breath and waited for the lights.

All white. I celebrated, unadulterated happiness surging through me. As I headed behind the curtain, I got a big hug from Matt, and he confessed. “Listen, it isn’t quite over yet. We have to see what Lady Grace pulls. Follow me.” As we turned to walk to the other platform, I said, “Matt, it doesn’t even matter. That was the best possible experience I could have had, so it doesn’t even matter if I win.”

And that was completely genuine. That moment, that experience of having a challenge thrown down before me, of having Matt help to amp up my adrenaline and of executing the lift was probably the most memorable athletic experience I’ve had. I remember pieces of my last heptathlon in college, and all of it had an edge because I wanted so badly to make the podium, and it was my one and only shot. I didn’t enjoy it the way I could have because my 22-year-old self was so very attached to the outcome. Don’t get me wrong -- I wanted to win Nationals. But my 45-year-old self knew how to embrace the joy of the experience of competing. Those feelings would stay with me.

I think I was beside myself about this for 6 weeks. Every time I thought about it, I got a little giddy and practically danced to the gym. By January the buzz was wearing off a little, but I’m struck by how long that sense of sheer joy lasted. It lasted because I was focused on that magical experience. Being an All-American is something I continue to be proud of, but the joy wore off quickly because I needed to find a new goal to chase. But because it was the experience of performing in a high-pressure situation and taking joy in the experience itself, those positive feelings stayed with me in a way that locking down that All-American trophy did not.

I think it’s tough when you are young to not be attached to an outcome. We’re still establishing ourselves and our path. Not being attached to the outcome can also be hard when your self-esteem is still tenuously developing or is structured in a way that makes it dependent on external outcomes. You might have told yourself that you don’t matter as much and need a space to prove you are worthy of praise. Those feelings detract from your ability to enjoy the moment because there’s something looming over you. Sometimes if they are too strong, they can detract from your performance. I don’t know that my younger self could have gotten into a different mental space, but I am grateful and delighted to have that experience now.