He Made Good on His Life

After losing part of his hand and a chance at professional baseball, Frank Pramesa spent the next 72 years proving a dream can end without ending a life.

We sat comfortably in a booth at the local Panera Bread, sharing a late lunch. It was kind of ironic that we both shared the same first name.

Amy Pramesa and I connected through my speaking and writing. She was especially drawn to my latest book, Everyday Resilience, where I share essays and reflection questions about identity, grief, and the relentless pursuit of never giving up. Amy P. and I were meeting so I could learn the details of her father Frank’s inspiring story—one I’m honored to share with you today.

Frank Pramesa was not an ordinary man. He was an extraordinary man living an ordinary life. I’m grateful to have been given permission to share exactly how special he was and why his story resonated so deeply with me.

Like so many people who dared to dream, Frank imagined a life like his older brother John, who played eight years of professional baseball for the Cincinnati Reds and the Chicago Cubs. And for all of John’s success, most people said Frank was even more talented at baseball. Frank, in his humble and modest way, always said John was the better athlete.

After graduating from Wheeling Central Catholic High School, Frank was drafted to play professional baseball. He was well on his way to realizing his dream when, a little over a month before he was to join the team, a press fell on his right hand and crushed his fingers and part of his hand while he was working in the steel mill.

Frank was rushed to the hospital, where his sister Betty , who was studying to be a nurse, met him in the emergency room. Frank’s parents didn’t have a car, and according to Amy P., his father was in shock after learning about the accident. Betty’s nursing background came in extremely handy that day. The surgeon told her they needed permission to amputate Frank’s hand at the wrist.

Betty said, “You can cut the rest of his fingers off and cut off part of his hand, but leave the thumb. He will make use of it.”

Even though doctors back then didn’t take kindly to being challenged, for some reason they listened to Betty. On that day in 1950, they removed Frank’s fingers and part of his hand. And with them went a dream he had spent years earning the opportunity to pursue.

When Amy P. first told me her father’s story, I immediately became curious about how he managed to recover—not only from losing part of a limb, but from losing a life-changing opportunity that few people ever get the chance to experience. I hadn’t experienced the loss of a limb, but I had experienced the complete disruption of my life. I understood deeply what it was like to dare to dream and then have your life completely blown up with little warning.

So I asked Amy, “How did your dad handle this devastation?”

Frank’s father, known as Pap, was a coal miner. He was tough and resilient himself—a trait that seems to have permeated generations of the Premesa family.

Amy answered, “Pap told my dad you have two choices. Number one—you can lay down and die. Or number two—you can make good of yourself.”

After everyone’s initial shock, there was no pity party for Frank. And throughout his life, he embraced the notion that no one should feel sorry for him. As someone who speaks and writes about resilience, I couldn’t help but recognize in Frank the same principles I’ve come to describe through my resilience C.A.P. framework: Continue. Adapt. Perspective.

Frank continued by enrolling at West Liberty and completing two years before deciding college wasn’t for him. He adapted by learning how to play baseball with his left hand and played for the Warwood Reds. And perhaps most remarkably, he found perspective.

People asked him on multiple occasions, “Were you mad at the world?”

Frank would reply, “Why be mad at the world? It’s not the world’s fault. It was an accident.”

Frank had the sheer determination to do exactly what Pap had offered as the alternative. He made good on his life. He married his sweetheart, Marilyn, and they had three children. According to Amy, Frank treated Marilyn like a queen.

Frank lived his life as a highly principled man. “My dad had high morals, was positive, competitive, and always for the underdog,” Amy told me. She followed that with something even more telling: “If everyone treated spouses like my dad, there would be no problems.”

Frank coached baseball for years. He learned how to play golf—and regularly beat guys with two hands. His message to them was simple: “You guys can’t beat a one-handed golfer.” Frank was pretty proud of that fact.

I asked Amy where she saw her dad in her own life. “His positivity and competitiveness,” she replied. After learning more about Amy, I saw his morals, values, and incredible resilience in her as well.

Frank’s philosophy was something of a master class in resilience. He believed that regardless of what was thrown at you, you could succeed. There was always a solution to a problem, although sometimes you had to look hard to find it. He believed in giving something your all or not doing it at all. And he often said, “The cream is always gonna rise to the top.”

As I sat there listening to Amy P., I told her, “I really wish I could have met your father. But his spirit definitely lives on in you.” We both had tears in our eyes. It was a moment of shared grief.

Frank once told his family, “When I’m 90, I’ll close my eyes.” Frank turned 90 years old on February 1, 2022. He died six days later, on February 7. Marilyn told her family she would die within a year of Frank. She died the following year, in 2023.

Frank’s story is an extraordinary story of resilience, acceptance, faith, and the relentless proof that even when life hands us incredibly difficult blows, if we persist, we may discover that our lives can still be full despite the obstacles we face.

I do wish I’d met Frank. But after hearing his story, I see that his life and legacy live on in his daughter Amy P. and, from everything she shared with me, in his grandson Owen.

Amy P. and I first connected when I learned that Owen, who is nine years old at the time of this writing, is an avid baseball fan. He wants to be like his Pap. I happened to have a collection of baseball cards from the 1970s that I had kept since I was a kid. They needed a home. They found Owen.

Owen’s mom, Brittany—Amy’s daughter—recently took him to a Chicago Cubs baseball game. Owen looked out at the field and asked, “Do you think that’s the same home plate Uncle John played with?”

His question gave me chills. Maybe that’s part of the proof that our loved ones who have passed live on in the stories we tell, the moments we share with one another, and the connections we make—often unexpectedly.

Amy P. and I ended our conversation with both of us a little choked up as we shared a moment of grief, missing our parents and missing their love.

I told her I’m still driving my way through grief. Just not literally anymore.

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As I sat in my favorite chair thinking about an upcoming workshop I’m about to deliver, I homed in on one slide, and it was as if the expansiveness of its meaning grew living threads.

The workshop is called Caring for Yourself While Caring for Others. Without getting into all the details, I’ll give you one phrase from one slide:

Empathy ≠ Ownership

Before I knew it, I was sitting in my living room as if I were in a brainstorming session. Except Brownie, my dog, and Mr. Kitty, my cat, aren’t the best at answering me back. Or allowing me to practice some iteration of what I’m going to say on Saturday.

This is when I really miss my mother.

She’d sit in her chair and listen to me practice my speeches, transitions, and one-liners. Sometimes, she’d even clap.

As you know if you’ve been reading along, no more Esther.

Instead, I decided to take my simple phrase, write about it, and share with you some of my thoughts. What I’m going to say when I get to that slide.

In context, if we love someone, we are, to some degree, a caregiver. Some people have made it their lifelong profession to care for others. Some have provided, or continue to provide, direct care to aging parents, ill spouses, or partners.

When you are in a caregiving role, I believe empathy is perhaps one of the most important gifts you can offer another person. And to take that a step further, I believe empathy is a great strength in a person’s character.

However, having been in public and private roles where caring was an absolute necessity, I learned the hard way that empathy and ownership are two completely different things.

I can offer understanding and compassion without owning the emotions of someone who is suffering.

That’s an important distinction when it comes to caring for ourselves, particularly with the fire hose of information that travels in a nanosecond about any number of disturbing circumstances or situations.

I’m 99% certain you’ve seen, heard, or learned about at least one thing today that bothered you.

That’s, of course, if you haven’t subscribed to the somewhat annoying view that empathy is a weakness.

Normally, I reserve judgment on most things. Of course, I have my opinions on many topics. Some stronger and more informed than others.

But truthfully, when I heard some politician go down a pathway of there being too many feminine traits in our system, empathy being one of them, I was like, “What kind of b******t are you trying to sell?”

Really, ask yourself the question I did: Why would anyone who cares about humanity and other people claim empathy is a bad quality to have?

To imply that it’s a female trait that has somehow infiltrated our systems and institutions as if it were some kind of disease.

I’d argue the real problem is not giving a s**t about other people.

Seems to me, over the course of history, when people start not caring about their fellow man—or woman—trouble is usually somewhere on the horizon.

Perhaps it’s a good time to remember what Maya Angelou once said: “When people tell you who they are, believe them.”

~sigh~

Sometimes there’s nothing we can do to help someone or change a situation. Sometimes we have little to no control over what is happening in front of us.

But there’s an important distinction between having no control over something and deciding we don’t want to feel uncomfortable because of it.

Feeling someone else’s pain doesn’t mean we have to own it. And being unable to fix their pain doesn’t mean we have to look away.

When I look eye to eye with someone, I want them to see my empathy coming through strongly. I want them to know they are seen.

They are not invisible.

Isn’t this what we all want anyhow?

Don’t you appreciate when someone acknowledges you in a way that makes you feel seen and heard? They may not have a solution to your problem, but their presence—holding space and offering a human connection—may change the entire course of your whole day.

There are many other threads Empathy ≠ Ownership went down as I sat in my chair thinking about that one slide.

But I’ll leave you with this reminder. Something I learned in Mrs. Blake’s kindergarten class and probably Sunday school too:

Treat people the way you’d like to be treated.

For me, someone who is empathetic is worth their weight in gold. They don’t have to own my feelings or my pain to let me know I’ve been seen.

I’ll leave you with this small exercise.

Turn to the person you love and tell them, “You matter.”

Then say to yourself:

“I matter too.”

By

Amy Gamble

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Driving My Way Through Grief

A Continuing Series

I Had the Magical Shoes All Along

Sitting in the front row of the balcony, I leaned a little forward to snap a photo of the gigantic fans. And as Dorothy ran outside with her suitcase, a massive tornado on the horizon, I grabbed onto my hat to keep it from blowing off my head.

The tornado graced the front of the screen and roared like an out-of-control Mother Nature event. Leaves blew around the thousands of people sitting inside one of the most technologically advanced venues in the world.

I’ve never actually been standing in the distance of a tornado. But last week it sure felt like it as I found myself fully immersed in The Wizard of Oz at the Las Vegas Sphere. It’s always been one of my all-time favorite movies. To see it in such a grand fashion left me awestruck.

We left for Vegas the day after the third anniversary of my mother’s passing. Funny thing is, my sister Shelley and I always find a memory to share or a story to tell about our Esther.

My mom would have absolutely loved seeing the Wicked Witch light up the screen at the Sphere. Of course, she wouldn’t have enjoyed paying $24 for a cocktail, but if she really wanted a drink, she’d have paid the price. She taught us to buy what we wanted, do fun things, and enjoy life. Because in Esther’s words, “Life’s short, Amy. You have to enjoy it while you can.”

I especially enjoyed the life lesson reminder of Dorothy and all her friends. In fact, I’ve kind of felt like Dorothy plenty of times in my life.

Lost. Trying to get home. And some wicked witch chasing me.

I’ve also felt like the Scarecrow, Tin Man, and Lion too. All three of them always had what they needed inside of them. This is a lesson that hit me kind of hard.

It took me most of my life to figure out that everything I needed, I always had. And there really wasn’t much to prove to anyone else. It was myself who had to believe in me.

Did you ever chase that insatiable gotta-prove-yourself ghost? You know, the one where you just have to get one more certification or degree, or finish one more project before the sun sets, and then you’ll feel as if you accomplished something. Then and only then will you know you’re a hard worker, valuable, smart, or fill in the blank.

The profound lesson of watching a tornado barrel down on Dorothy, while she had absolutely no control over stopping it, made me realize how little we actually control. And certainly not what others think of us.

Is it feeling worthy? Qualified? Proud? Good enough?

It’s all in the same family of seeking external validation. Proving to others we are worth something.

What I’ve learned in the years since my mother passed away has been life-changing for me. In a strange way, grief has been the ultimate school of excellence for me. The power, resources, skills, and talents have always been within my reach and sometimes even in my grasp.

The key difference has been that I was so busy trying to prove myself, I hadn’t stopped to reflect on who I actually was. What experience had taught me.

And no matter the speed of my life’s tornadoes, the fact is I am still standing after all.

Hat on head.

I learned that when I began believing in myself, I no longer had any reason to try to prove myself to someone else. What an absolutely freeing feeling. So simple in concept, and yet so difficult to grasp.

Like Dorothy, I’ve hoped there was some Wizard out there who could help me get where I was trying to go. And then I stopped moving and realized I had the magical shoes on my feet all along.

Funny how when we seek answers or solutions outside ourselves, we find the real magic lies within.

Intuition.

Wisdom.

Experience.

There’s no place like home.

Amy Gamble

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There’s no greater feeling to me than being loved unconditionally.

I thought about love a lot over the past week, after I was lucky enough to see Bruno Mars’ Romantic Tour concert. As Bruno sang one song after another about love, I was truly moved by his passion for sharing his musical talents with the world.

I’m getting ready to go on vacation, so I wasn’t sure I’d write one more essay before taking a break from my everyday life. But I was so moved by an old friend’s video that I decided to take to the page and express my overwhelming gratitude to the pets and people who have loved me.

Let me begin by telling you a story.

This friend of mine and I were both taken down by illness over twenty years ago. At the time, I was hurt by all the outpouring of support people showed her, while I was relinquished to the shame-and-blame routine that often accompanies someone with serious mental health issues.

People were going out and holding fundraising events for her cause. For mine, I was abandoned by more people from my past life. They weren’t sure how to deal with me anymore. They weren’t sure they could trust me as they once did. And this was long before doing a NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness) walk was acceptable and cool.

She was actively shown empathy, while I experienced tremendous grief over losing the life I’d once known and the friends who came with it. If there was a black sheep, I was it. Or at least it felt like it at the time.

The people who didn’t abandon me during my worst times were my family. Namely, my mother, father, Aunt Mary Francis, Uncle Sam, Ashley, Natalie, Shelley, Bob, Sherry, and Gary. Of the long list of people I know, those are the ones who stood by me through the darkest times in my life.

I could feel their enduring love and support, even when I wasn’t capable of returning it or appreciating it. It was true love. The kind where, no matter what happens, you know you can rely on that person to show up for you. No matter the circumstance or situation.

And boy did I have some dark times. But the truth is, I’ve always had light amongst the darkness.

I may have struggled. Cried ugly tears. Asked why God cursed me. Wished that all my friends would have treated me like they treated my friend with the physical illness.

Today, I almost feel guilty for having those thoughts. Because after my hard times, I’ve been blessed with a rich and fulfilling life. Not perfect. Not always easy. But I’m capable and able to care for myself, the land, and my pets. Capable of writing books and essays, coaching others, and giving of myself with my time, talent, and treasures.

My friend? Well, she’s in a wheelchair. One hundred percent reliant on caregivers and her partner to help her. Struck with a physically disabling condition that is relentless in deteriorating the mind and body.

And yet, she persists. She keeps trying. Her video was about the wonderful caregiving organization she relies on to help her, along with her partner.

Her radiant spirit continues to thrive.

Lives running parallel with little more in common than similar dates of onset and the life-altering nature of illness. But very different in terms of how one illness continued to devastate while the other went into remission. Very similar, though, in terms of the love we’ve been given.

You see, when life hands us difficult challenges and throws us off our path, the natural tendency is to think, “Why me?”

I admit I spent two solid weeks lying in my bed during a depressive episode and medication adjustment period, crying to God to take my life. My suffering was immense. Emotionally painful. And there weren’t a lot of outside answers or explanations for what the hell had happened to me.

And then, I learned how to take one day at a time.

I came to realize that when someone is diagnosed with an illness of any kind, there’s a grieving process that comes with it. Something no one had ever told me. Something I discovered on my own.

I allowed myself to grieve for the identity I once had. I allowed myself to mourn all the friendships lost. I learned to forgive myself and others. I learned to appreciate the little things in life in ways that filled up my heart.

And every little thing helped me heal.

But the one non-negotiable piece of the puzzle was the fact that, like my friend, I needed help too. More than anything, I needed love. I needed people to look me in the eye and treat me with the same dignity and respect they did before I had an official diagnosis.

And so it is love that moved me to the page today. I’m grateful for all that I have and for the short list of people who have made this journey with me.

Last night, my cat Mr. Kitty jumped on my chest while I was lying down. He wanted me to pet him. He wanted his love time. I reflected on the fact that this pet has been part of my life’s journey for 18 years. That’s a lot of sunrises and sunsets.

I remembered that the last thing my brother-in-law did before leaving my house for the last time ever was come back inside so he could say goodbye to Mr. Kitty. He stood in my kitchen talking to him, petting him, and, well…loving on him.

You don’t even have to like cats to appreciate the impact one special pet had on a man’s man. A tough guy on the exterior, but filled with love in his heart.

My heart is saddened by the difficult journey my friend continues to endure. And at the same time, it’s filled up with gratitude for the way my life has turned out.

Love doesn’t take away pain and sorrow and suffering, but it sure does heal the spirit.

As far as I’m concerned, Bruno can keep on singing about love forever. His voice and passion as he sings Die With a Smile moves me to tears. The kind of tears you have when your heart fills up with love, joy, sadness, and gratitude all at once.

To all my readers and listeners, I’m sending you lots of love today. I hope you feel it in the cosmos.

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A few days ago, I sat in the living room with the sun shining in the window, looking out at my peaceful view of sprawling chestnut trees. I was feeling down in the dumps for no apparent reason. I was fatigued, without having moved much. I was sad without really knowing why.

In my never-ending quest to understand myself, what’s going on with me emotionally, and, for heaven’s sake, to not want to feel bad, I dug into all the reasons I might be despondent. Was it the medication? Was it the interrupted sleep? Was it the rainy days layered back to back to back?

Surely it wasn’t the weather. Because for two days straight, the sun was shining and the skies were blue. The rain hangover was over.

No. It wasn’t any of those things.

And, of course, right as I begin to write about where my down mood came from, a beautiful red cardinal appears at my bird feeder. Some may know that there are those of us who believe the red cardinal is a sign of our lost loved ones looking over us. Paying us a visit. Reminding us we are loved.

And as if it were magic or divine intervention—or, for all the doubters, pure coincidence—the red cardinal is currently hopping along the green grass, picking seeds off the ground. Obviously feeling safe in the little bird haven I created earlier in the year.

Back to the depressing mood I couldn’t shake. It turns out I’d not consciously thought about a significant anniversary date. In August 2023, my mother took a turn for the worse. She lost consciousness.

And just like that, the woman who was my best friend, mother, and confidant was taken away from me. The person I went to with everything. The one who had my back when many turned theirs. Loyal all the way until she could no longer interact with me anymore. Her spirit had left. Only her tired, worn-out body remained for a few days longer.

After a few nights of solid sleep, my natural inclination for reflection returned. I realized my grief journey had taken me back to that nursing home room. The tears welled up in my eyes. Not a devastating feeling, simply an acknowledgment of loss. Admission of sadness.

All the while, I realized my body had remembered long before my mind caught up. Have you ever had that happen? You’re going along living life and then suddenly an anniversary date of some sort comes up and interrupts, maybe even displaces, the mood. The energy. The motivation to move freely.

I’ve learned something significant in the past three years. The impact of people we love who are no longer available to us still remains in spirit.

But when it sinks into your bones and you feel loss in your body, mind, and spirit, it strikes a chord. Hits a nerve. And if you’re like me, you might not be expecting it.

Grief is a lifelong journey. It has no endpoint. I think that’s one of the biggest disservices to people—attempting to put a word into a box, package it up, and hand it back to us all nice, neat, and tidy.

Grief is not nice, neat, and tidy. It doesn’t fit into a box. It doesn’t travel on a linear line with timelines for this healing and endpoints for that one.

And now, quite honestly, as I embody this silent revelation, so many other things in my life have a much deeper meaning. Grief is almost an all-encompassing word without borders. In the past, that might have made me uncomfortable. As a goal-driven person practicing an action-oriented life with timelines, telling me grief is infinite and beyond might not have sat well with me.

As I sat here typing these words, I remembered my bird feeder hadn’t received the normal allotment of seed. I stepped outside and looked down at the ground underneath the feeder.

And there was a feather.

A cardinal and a feather.

I wasn’t seeking signs or thinking about them. My heart was sharing with you how I came to understand why I wasn’t feeling so great.

Wow! Now two cardinals. Beautiful red cardinals.

Red. My mother’s favorite color. She always told me she’d be with me in spirit.

I suppose I’m like most people. When you don’t feel well, there’s only so much inspiration or motivation you have. After all these years, I’ve finally learned to give myself a break. To rest when my body calls for it. To allow my mind to drip in the tears of sadness. To let my spirit resist pushing aside the uncomfortable feelings.

All my friends are coming today. One right after the other. Now the dove. I take that as a message of peace. The feather a message of protection. The cardinal a message of presence. And all of nature a message of love.

What started as an essay about grief gently turned into an overwhelming message of gratitude. Grateful for the way a simple act of feeding the birds has turned into love, joy, peace, and yes, even sadness.

All those emotions can coexist. And while I don’t wish for loss of any kind, I can appreciate the infinite emotions grief can bring about.

The question is: Am I silent enough to hear them and brave enough to embrace them with honesty?

Thanks for reading Beyond the Arc: Reflections on resilience, identify and life. A warm welcome to my new subscribers. No matter how you landed here, I’m grateful you’re here. You’ll notice sometimes I do venture off clearly Beyond the Arc into sports and culture wars, but that’s not my main focus.

I prefer writing and sharing about the lessons life has taught me, teaches me, or the wisdom I find in reflecting.

If you’re new here, I hope you’ll subscribe.

Amy Gamble

Thanks for reading Beyond the Arc: Reflections on Resilience, Identity, & Life! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.

How many of us love a great comeback story?

I know I’m drawn into hearing the story of how someone overcame a disability, setback, or failure and then turned their life around. It’s as if the resilience pathway had a start, middle, and finish.

The truth?

Most stories of resilience get lost because they aren’t linear comebacks. They’re not neat, dramatic happy endings. In fact, I’d argue it’s the continuation that really matters.

What if I were to tell you my greatest personal story of resilience isn’t about surviving near-death experiences? It isn’t about recovering from mental illness. It isn’t about fighting my way through injuries to make the 1988 Olympic Team Handball Team.

My greatest story begins when I lost my mother.

After she passed away, I truly felt lost. My biggest encourager, supporter, best friend, and confidant….gone.

It would take thousands of words to explain all the ways she impacted my life. So removing this monumental, dependable, loving human being from my life took a toll on me. It forced me to turn inward and focus on my own ability to validate myself.

Everyone has different relationships with their parents. But almost everyone has lost someone who played an outsized, important role in their lives. Whether that was a sudden loss or simply relationships drifting apart that could no longer be maintained for whatever reason.

Resilience showed up for me in ways I didn’t think possible. I began to lean on all the skills, experiences, and events that shaped me into the person I’d become.

I analyzed the parts of myself I liked and the more shadow parts of me. Because no matter who we are, we have lightness and we have darkness. I wanted to learn how I could shine my light in ways I hadn’t thought possible.

But first I had to conjure up the courage to address the parts of me I didn’t want to look at.

What about all the people I may have hurt in my life along the way? Even if I didn’t intend to cause pain, it still happened.

Instead of beating myself up about my perceived mistakes, I tapped into my ability to accept the things I couldn’t change and forgive myself for my perceived shortcomings.

That’s resilience in action.

One day I woke up without a sense of purpose. Without goals. Without drive.

I just woke up and realized what my mother always said:

“Life goes on, Amy. You have to keep going.”

And so part of my resilience in practice was learning, number one, to protect myself. Not only from other people, but from the internal critic inside of me that was notoriously hard on me.

I always wanted to be good, do good, be perceived as being good.

But what exactly is good?

It’s certainly not allowing yourself to be so vulnerable that some people take advantage of your generosity. It’s definitely not allowing yourself to be in the company of people who discount, dismiss, or constantly put you down.

The kind of resilience I’m most proud of is the kind where you dig deep and set boundaries. The kind where you learn it’s okay to disappoint people. The kind where you quit something shortly after you started.

We applaud the person who perseveres. But what about the person whose resilience tells her to quit?

We admire someone who gives endlessly. But what happens when resilience tells her to stop giving?

We celebrate vulnerability. But what about when resilience says, you don’t get access to me anymore?

We love the comeback story. But what if the comeback is simply deciding, I’m going to live differently now?

And sometimes resilience is the kind where you say, “Today, the heck with it all.”

There’s something about changing my focus and making one of the most important things in my life having peace of mind. It doesn’t mean I sit in my home with my head in the sand, ignoring all the things going on in the world.

It means I pay attention to what I allow into my mind.

Part of my resilience strategy is leaning hard on the skills elite athleticism taught me about getting your mind right. I call it monitoring my thoughts. Performance thought leaders call it mindset.

If all of the world around me feels unstable, unpredictable, mean, divided, hateful, and yes, even to some degree “crazy,” then it’s really time for me to pay close attention to what I’m internalizing. That means putting limits on what I’m going to allow myself to get upset or fired up about.

Some people find great solace in religion or spiritual practices. I think when your spirit gets into alignment with your mind and body, there’s no greater way to lean on that energy source. It’s powerful.

My resilience toolkit is built to last my lifetime.

One of the most important things in it is keeping my fears and worries in a contained box. I can take the box out from under the bed on occasion and look at it. Move it around. But I must put it back into the box and place it under the bed.

Since I’ve been focused on protecting my peace, my stress response system has quietly shrunk. When I feel fear begin to signal that response is coming, I know to take a deep breath and immediately ask myself what I’m thinking about. Why am I thinking about it?

Maybe sometimes I need a good night’s sleep to clear the slate. Maybe I need to figure out what I’m putting into my mind, whether that’s reading, interacting with others, or picking up on an occasional doom scroll on social media.

Shifting the mind is like shifting gears in an old standard transmission. If you don’t put the clutch down far enough and try to shift, it’s gonna grind.

And so sometimes the mind does grind a little before we get settled and grounded again.

There’s no magic wand to getting through the challenges of life. It’s a journey. Sometimes it’s harder than others.

Maybe resilience isn’t really the dramatic comeback we’ve made it out to be.

Maybe it’s a practice.

Maybe it’s learning when to push and when to quit. When to give and when to stop giving. When to let someone in and when to close the door. When to worry and when to put the box back under the bed.

And maybe it’s simply getting up one more morning and remembering what my mother once told me:

“Life goes on, Amy. You gotta keep going.”

One incremental step at a time.

About the Author

Amy Gamble, OLY, is a writer, life coach, and 1988 Olympian in team handball. A former collegiate basketball player at Tennessee and Arizona, she writes about resilience, identity, women’s sports, and the complicated business of being human.

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