This is the first of a series.
By Jaimie Crawford
What does it mean to lose?
To me, it's a heavy weight to bear. A complicated relationship that attacks my identity and shakes the foothold I think I have on reality.
On regularly clocked intervals I ask myself this question and create all the ways in which I am destined for failure. This possibility cripples me before I even begin to walk and snuffs my candle out before it's able to light my way.
Almost one year ago, I placed third overall in my first figure competition. A victory that went beyond the trophy I collected. It culminated months of hard work and sacrifice and was awarded from what I believe to be a competitive edge rooted in the fact that I merely entered the competition to learn. A fun, new adventure I was embarking upon, where placing or not placing was not a centralized focus, but rather a peripheral benefit that didn't sway the experience as a whole.
Eight months later, I balance on the tight-rope of whether I will compete again in the same competition I placed in back in April of 2015. This time feels different. All I can think about is the trophy and what it will take to get there. How will I beat the Jaimie Crawford that stepped on stage in 2015, knowing what it took to create her in the first place? The shame that comes from writing this makes my heart race, my palms tingle and my eyes sting. I feel fraudulent in my actions, as though I am a self-proclaimed healer, selling snake oil to unsuspecting purchasers.