Winning Balance

by Nancy French

  Next, I was taken to get my hair and makeup done. In gymnastics, we weren’t supposed to wear heavy makeup, except to accentuate our eyes. Hairstyling before a meet usually meant pulling our hair back in a tight ponytail. So getting the full treatment for DWTS was absolutely amazing. My hairstylist was so talented at creating the perfect look for me—elegant and simple. She created a loose, wavy style by pulling some of my hair back with diamond flower pins. I felt like a princess.

  Hair and makeup took about three hours, and during most of the time I was sitting in the chair, I could hear Mark playing his guitar. Girls have to go through so much more than guys do, I thought.

  By the time the show was about to go live, I was shaking. A crew member went out onstage first to prepare the audience. Then came the music. Flashing lights meant we were about to be officially announced to the viewers. That first night, we were supposed to walk down some stairs and onto the stage as our names were announced.

  I almost couldn’t bear it. Just after they introduced the couple in front of us, we were given the signal to start. Then, as I walked down the stairs—looking like a princess and holding Mark’s hand—I almost tripped in my three-inch heels. Since I wasn’t comfortable in them, I simply misjudged the steps and lost my balance. Thankfully, it was almost unnoticeable. Mark was right there to straighten me, and the cameras had almost moved off us by the time I slipped. But still, I’d almost blown it during the first few seconds of the show, and that put me even more on edge.

  As we waited backstage while the other contestants competed, I became more and more anxious. “Can we go over it one more time?” I asked Mark as we waited to compete. “I’ve totally forgotten it!”

  Mark laughed at me and assured me that everything would work out. Right before we were announced, we did our promo, which is the little segment where we smile and laugh backstage while the camera pans over us.

  Then it was time to dance. We walked hand in hand out onto the stage. Once we got into position, Mark whispered to me, “Just stay calm. It’s just the two of us . . . no one else.”

  While that was technically true—we were the only two onstage—we were about to dance in front of a live studio audience, on live national TV, for an audience of millions watching from home.

  Still, his words somehow calmed me. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Mark put his face against mine as we waited for our cue.

  I heard the show’s host, Tom Bergeron, announce, “Dancing the waltz . . . Shawn Johnson and her partner, Mark Ballas!”

  The music started, and we took off. The dance was elegant and enchanting, and I seemed to hit every mark. As we danced, I felt like I had no worries in the world, and I simply enjoyed the moment. When we finished the waltz, I was grinning from ear to ear. I’d done it.

  Rather, we’d done it, and I’d had the time of my life.

  I could tell Mark was proud of me, as were the judges. Carrie Ann was so emotional that her eyes filled with tears. She told me, “You have the power to move people with your dancing.”

  I thought, Okay, if the whole show is like this, I’ve got it.

  Of course, I’d soon learn that every week would not be as easy.

  Lesson I’ve Learned

  Stepping out of your comfort zone may be scary at first. But it’s worth the risk to see how far you can go.

  Chapter 22

  Finding My Space

  Courage doesn’t always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying, “I will try again tomorrow.”

  —Mary Anne Radmacher

  WHEN THE JUDGE signed off on my participation in Dancing with the Stars by ordering that I have a chaperone with me every second, he put my mom and me in an extremely awkward position. As much as I love my mom, I found it difficult to be with her every moment. After all, while I was in China for five weeks, I had to do my own laundry and get my own meals. Then, when I went on tour with my Olympic friends, I was on my own for another two and a half months. Now, suddenly I couldn’t leave my mom’s presence. I enjoyed hanging out with Mark and learning new dance moves, and I would have preferred a little space. Mark never really understood why my mom had to be there, and I know she sensed his annoyance.

  “Mom,” I said to her one day in frustration, “I’m old enough to take care of myself.”

  “Don’t you think I know that?” she responded, fighting back tears.

  Of course, she was in a terrible bind. She couldn’t disobey the judge’s orders, but she didn’t want to hang out on the set with me when she wasn’t wanted. On top of that, she was apart from my dad for the first time in thirty years. Though he came out for the show’s tapings, he had to spend most of each week at home tending his business.

  My mom did everything she could to make things work. She read stacks of novels while sitting in the back of the studio where we rehearsed. She learned to navigate the terrible traffic in LA so she could get us wherever we needed to go. Each morning, she’d run to a little shop called the Coffee Bean to get me coffee while I did early-morning phone interviews in my pajamas.

  My mom’s presence may have made me feel smothered at times, but it didn’t help that I was labeled on the show as the naive teenager. Maybe it’s just the nature of reality TV, but there seemed to be a narrative for every cast member. And each of us needed to conform to our role in the story. I was usually depicted as inexperienced and wide-eyed. When dispensing advice, the judges kept mentioning that my dances were “age appropriate.” My true self didn’t really match the girl they were portraying me to be. Maybe they mistook my natural shyness for excessive sheltering.

  One day later in the season, I went into the studio and discovered that the producers had staged a prom, complete with a disco ball and cheesy costumes, for Mark and me. Yes, I was only seventeen, but the “She’s so young” theme got to be a little much. At times I wanted to say, “Okay, guys, I’m not eight.”

  Despite my discomfort at how I was sometimes portrayed, my high-scoring waltz did a lot to alleviate my nerves. On week two, however, Mark and I were assigned the salsa—a dance that includes a lot of hip movement.

  “Sorry, but my hips have never moved that way,” I told a frustrated Mark. He’d been patiently showing me exactly what I was supposed to do. He tried different approaches. He cajoled. He begged. He ordered. He joked. He even unashamedly performed the female role to help me visualize what I should do.

  I just shook my head. “In gymnastics, we simply don’t move like that. We aren’t allowed to.”

  The more he told me to relax, the more locked up I got. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to scream or cry. But instead of having a complete meltdown in the studio, I ran to the bathroom, locking the door before bawling my eyes out.

  “Shawn,” I heard my mom yell from the other side of the door. “Please come out.”

  Mark was completely stunned. At least that’s what his tone of voice suggested. “Seriously?” I heard him ask my mom.

  There was no way I was coming out. Tears streamed down my face, and I grabbed some toilet paper to blow my nose.

  “I want to go home!” I cried. “I don’t like this. I don’t want to do it. I’m done.”

  “That’s fine!” my mom said through the door. “Come on out. You don’t have to do it.”

  About forty-five minutes later, I finally unlocked the door and emerged with swollen, puffy eyes. Mark, tired of waiting for me, was gone by the time I came out. I was quiet on the drive back to our apartment.

  “I’ve never been able to get out there and perform for anyone,” Mom said gently. “I’m not even able to dance with your dad in public. I don’t want you to be like me. I want you to experience things.”

  Once we got to our apartment, I went to my room and tried to talk myself into doing the salsa.

  Okay. You just have to try, I thought.

  Though I was mortified, I went back to the studio the next day and gave it my all. We were behind. Because of my bathroom incident, we’d mis
sed a whole day of practice.

  When it came time to perform, I thought I might be able to make it past elimination. I had at least three things going for me. First, I had an amazing outfit. Though I looked a little like the Chiquita banana girl, the costume made me feel glamorous. Second, the hairstylists once again did something unique with my hair, which may have looked a bit strange in person, but came off well on TV. And last, I had Mark, who was encouraging me the entire way.

  “Dancing the salsa,” Tom announced, “Shawn Johnson and her partner, Mark Ballas!” I took a deep breath.

  When the music started, I felt completely ready to go. All my inhibitions melted away, and I danced with all my heart. I could tell the crowd was very supportive, and once again, I had a blast.

  “You are the cutest thing,” Bruno said after Mark and I finished, completely out of breath. “But I want you to be more naughty and more flirtatious.”

  “She’s only seventeen,” Tom responded.

  Though the judges weren’t as lavish with their praise as they had been the first week, I think their responses showed what a strange position I’d been put in. I was in the space between “already” and “not yet”—past childhood but not quite an adult. Could the young, naive girl dance a salsa? Somehow I’d pulled it off and managed to make the cut.

  After that very challenging performance, I began thinking about gymnastics and its place in my life. One night, I went on YouTube and watched some of my Olympic performances. I felt something stirring in my heart. Was I really done with the sport that had been such a part of me for so long? As I sat in front of my computer, I struggled with my future. Those videos brought to mind so many questions . . . questions I honestly couldn’t answer.

  Was it even possible to go back?

  Had I been out of practice for too long?

  What would my motivation be in going back?

  Was I willing to do it all again?

  If I went back to training, would I lose all of my opportunities in other areas?

  Could I come back as good as I’d been before? Or maybe even better?

  Would I move out of my parents’ house, and if so, where would I train?

  Would it be worth it?

  I realized how much my feelings about gymnastics were shifting back and forth. Before my second week on Dancing with the Stars, I easily would have said “no way!” to the idea of going back to the gym.

  But the following week, as Mark and I were preparing to perform the fox-trot, I was seriously leaning toward going back. One night, as I wrote in my journal before bed, I ended my entry with a single word:

  “Help!”

  Lesson I’ve Learned

  When you’re in close quarters with family members or friends, give both yourself and them grace. During Dancing with the Stars, my mom and I were together almost all the time, so naturally we began to get on each other’s nerves. She also happened to be the one person I felt safe letting out my frustration on. I might have been more patient and kind if I’d understood how much pressure she was under. She wasn’t used to all the publicity and producers trying to call many of the shots. In a way, she had to watch me grow up under the hands of someone else. Looking back, I’m extremely appreciative of all she did for me during DWTS.

  Chapter 23

  An Arresting Development

  The Lord is faithful; he will strengthen you and guard you from the evil one.

  —2 Thessalonians 3:3

  SOMETHING CHANGED in me after successfully completing that salsa. I felt more confident, more alive . . . almost like I could do anything after making it through that dance. Plus, our fans were very encouraging, and I loved the nickname they’d given us: “Team Shark,” a combination of Shawn and Mark.

  The third week we were assigned the fox-trot, another elegant, calm, and cool dance. After a good week of practice, I figured we’d either hit it or miss it. But I should have had more confidence because we absolutely nailed it. Not only did we score our first 9, we got our first set of three 9s! After giving post-dance interviews, Mark and I were elated as we received high fives from our friends backstage.

  As we celebrated, I noticed something odd. For one thing, my parents were nowhere to be seen. They’d been cheering for me as always in the audience, but they weren’t there to greet me backstage as they had been after every other performance. My agent was scurrying around more than usual too.

  When Sheryl finally slowed down enough for me to walk up to her, she looked as serious as I’d ever seen her.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked. “Did you see the dance? We nailed it!”

  “The dance was great,” she said with a brief smile. Then her solemn expression returned.

  “Everything okay?”

  “We’ll talk later,” she said.

  For the rest of the show, I was anxious. I didn’t even watch the other contestants perform. Once the show had ended and we’d done our interviews, Tracey and I walked back to my trailer.

  When I opened the door, I was surprised to see that it was full of people—my parents, Sheryl, people from the show, and a huge African American man I’d never seen before. Everyone looked worried, which freaked me out even more.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  Slowly they explained the situation. “A man drove from Florida either to kidnap you or to kill you . . . it’s impossible to know which,” I was told.

  My mind was racing. Though they told me all the details they knew, I could barely understand what was happening. Then I heard someone use the word stalker for the first time. Shawn Johnson from West Des Moines had a stalker? It just didn’t seem real.

  But it definitely was. Half a dozen people were in my trailer emphasizing how very real the threat to my life had been. My stalker was a thirty-four-year-old man from Florida. I was horrified to learn that he had made it all the way from his home to the CBS lot in California, where he was apprehended by police officers after jumping the fence.

  A security guard told me what they had found in his car: zip ties, duct tape, a knife, a bulletproof vest, a shotgun, and a loaded Colt .45 hidden in a hollowed-out Bible.

  The police had also found letters in his vehicle that described his plans to marry me. He’d even hyphenated my last name with his on the papers.

  As I was struggling to take all this in, Sheryl spoke. “This is your new bodyguard,” she said, motioning to the enormous man beside her. “You need to listen to him and follow his orders.”

  Suddenly, I had a stalker and a bodyguard?

  “Shawn, things are going to have to change,” the man said very simply. “Do you want to go home?”

  “To West Des Moines?” I asked, not really comprehending. “You mean, quit the show?”

  My parents looked stricken. We weren’t sure what to do.

  “Let’s go,” my mom said. She just wanted to take me home. “Let’s get you out of the limelight. It’s not worth it.”

  “Wait a second,” my dad said, holding up his hand as if to calm the room. “Shawn is probably better protected here than she would be if we left Dancing with the Stars and went back to West Des Moines. . . . What if this guy gets off and comes to find her?”

  We discussed our options. We had great law enforcement back home, but we had a bodyguard and security here who were attuned to the situation.

  I felt sick to my stomach as I considered my options. I had just gotten comfortable on the show. I was performing the dances well; I was enjoying my new friends; and I finally felt like I had gotten the hang of a new routine. I didn’t want to give it all up because of some crazy stranger. After more back-and-forth, I blurted out, “I don’t want to quit.”

  “Okay then,” my bodyguard said. “First of all, you’re going to have to move to an undisclosed location and check in there under an alias. Don’t tell anyone where you’re living, not even Mark. The fewer people who know where you are, the better.”

  I was disappointed. Though the little apartment my mom and I had been
assigned in Los Angeles wasn’t terribly fancy, it had become “home” to me, much like the Olympic Village had. All the other contestants—my DWTS “family”—were living nearby. I couldn’t imagine packing up and moving to a strange, new location.

  “Second,” he continued, “we’re going to get you a different car. We don’t want to take the chance of anyone recognizing you by what you’re driving.”

  All of these drastic measures made me realize what a big deal this threat was.

  “Third, we’ll get you a more private location to rehearse,” he said. “One without windows so people can’t watch you, whether accidentally or intentionally.

  “I’m going to be with you at all times. That means that if you go to a store, I’ll be there too. If you move from one area of the stage to another, I’ll move too.” He reminded me that I could still drop out of the competition and head home if I was too rattled by everything. Again, I said I was determined to stay.

  When Mark heard that someone had tried to kidnap me, or worse, he got very protective. “Where is he?” Mark said, ready to bust the guy’s head. Maksim Chmerkovskiy, another one of the professional dancers, reacted similarly. He puffed out his chest and walked over to me, saying, “I’ll take care of you, Shawn. I won’t let anybody get you.”

  Though I appreciated everyone’s kindness, I couldn’t stop looking over my shoulder, even after we moved into a fantastic hotel that was much nicer than our original apartment. When I was alone in my room, I still felt like someone was watching me. Mom got a restraining order against the stalker to protect me, her, and Mark. This meant that he was ordered to stay one hundred yards away from me and was prohibited from communicating with me or harassing Mom, Dad, or Mark. His bail was set at $35,000.