The thing I remember most about my heart breaking was that it didn't make a noise. I didn't hear it shattering into a million pieces, or being torn to shreds. But that didn't mean it wasn't happening.

I was about ten years old. Up until that point in my young life, I was only aware of gymnastics. My mom enrolled me in a class when I was five, and I was immediately asked to join the competition team. I moved up the ranks, competed in local, and then national competitions, and loved every second of it.

Even as a child, I was extremely competitive and hardworking. I came home with calluses and blisters on my hands, and sore, aching muscles. I did gymnastics three hours a day, five days a week. Just thinking of it now, I am exhausted. But I didn't care. I wanted to be the best, so I worked hard to try to get there. I wanted to be a professional gymnast. I idolized stars like Nastia Liukin and Shawn Johnson, and they were the only reason I watched the Summer Olympics.

At first, my parents were so supportive of me doing gymnastics. My mom drove me to every practice and competition. My dad called me "his tough little gymnast" and traced my calluses every time I got a new one, staring at my blisters with an odd mixture of pain and pride. So I can't really pinpoint an exact moment when it started to change. Perhaps it was when I twisted my ankle for the sixth time, or when I started to complain more and more about my blistered hands. I don't know when my parents started to see the consequences of gymnastics, but I know that the straw that broke the camel's back was the neck injury of one of my close friends. She had injured her neck while doing a trick on the beam, and it was horrifying for all of us because we knew how dangerous neck injuries were.

My parents sat me down one day, and told me that I had to quit gymnastics. They explained to me that it was too dangerous and they feared for my safety. I didn't know what to think. I wasn't blind, and I knew how dangerous gymnastics was, but that was a trivial detail in my mind. When it finally settled in, I felt like my heart had stopped. I couldn't imagine my life without gymnastics because it had been a part of me for so long. I felt like I would be giving up my left arm if i quit gymnastics. I begged, and pleaded, and cajoled, but my parents were having none of it. There was no other way around it. I had to quit gymnastics.

I remember the day like it was yesterday. I walked into the gym, head held high, and fighting back the tears. Don't cry, don't cry, I chanted in my head. I didn't want my coaches, and my teammates to see me, the tough little gymnast, reduced to a sobbing mess. But I felt as if my heart was being torn from my chest and ripped into shreds. I didn't want to say goodbye to the big gym with padded mats for tumbling, and bars, and balance beams. I didn't want to say goodbye to all of my friends and my coaches because they were like my second family.

My teammates saw me first, and ran toward me, lifting me up and hugging me all at once.
"We're going to miss you!" They all exclaimed sadly, "Come visit us!" I could only force a smile, not trusting myself to speak for fear of sobbing. My throat ached from the effort of keeping in the tears.

But what I remember most about that day was the reaction of my head coach. She leaned down and hugged me tight, and then she said: "I'm so proud of you for not crying and staying strong. It was such a pleasure to teach you, and I know you have a bright future ahead of you." If I had ever felt heartbreak before in my young life, it had been nothing compared to the agony that wracked my body now. How could I possibly leave this behind? How could I ever find something that I loved as much this?

I realize now that it wasn't the end of the world, but I do know that the experience made me stronger. I thought I couldn't survive without gymnastics, but here I am now, perfectly fine. For a while after I quit, I refused to talk about or think about gymnastics. Now I've gotten over it, and I know that we made the right decision. I wouldn't give up my years as a gymnast for anything, but I know that quitting helped me to realize that what doesn't kill you really does make you stronger.