Winning Balance

by Nancy French

  The attention, I found out, wasn’t isolated to teenagers at high school. Everywhere I went, people did double takes. Though I tried to camouflage my appearance, people weren’t confused by the sunglasses and hat. After all, I was still less than five feet tall and had the same blonde hair seen by tens of millions of people during the Olympics and DWTS.

  “Hey,” people repeatedly asked, “aren’t you the girl from Dancing with the Stars?”

  That always surprised me because I had never expected the show to define me. “No,” I wanted to say when I was feeling particularly down. “I’m the girl from the United States Olympic Team!” However, I did understand why people focused on the show. The Olympic gymnastics competition was broadcast for just a few hours over the course of a few days during the Games. DWTS came on twice a week, several hours a week, for three months. It made sense that I was more readily identifiable as a dancer, but it seemed as if the biggest milestone of my life had been pushed away.

  The public attention wasn’t all bad, of course. In fact, it was mostly very encouraging. Kind older people would tell me that I was like a beam of sunshine on the TV screen. Sweet little girls who aspired to be Olympic athletes would nervously offer me a pen and paper. I enjoyed spending time with the young gymnasts most of all. After all, not many years before I had been one of them and had idolized famous top gymnasts. I had wanted to know what their favorite color was and what they’d eaten for breakfast. I was sure that if only I could connect with and relate to those gymnasts, I might someday be just like them. So nothing was more gratifying to me than seeing that same light on a little girl’s face as she approached me.

  In fact, I was so thankful for everyone’s unwavering support through all my experiences that I stopped for a short chat or an autograph whenever possible, no matter where I was.

  Well, there was one glaring exception.

  One afternoon, I was in the bathroom at the local mall. Suddenly, a hand emerged under the stall holding a piece of paper and a pen.

  “Excuse me,” I heard the voice echo through the bathroom from the next stall. “Do you mind giving me your signature?”

  Even though I loved and appreciated my fans, a bathroom autograph was too much.

  “Um,” I responded, “I’m a little busy over here. No thanks.”

  I waited until I was sure she was gone before coming out of that stall!

  In other circumstances, I overheard people talking about me. For some reason, people assumed increased flexibility on the balance beam meant reduced hearing at the grocery store. More than once I heard whispered conversations that went something like this:

  “Is that Shawn Johnson?”

  “No, it can’t be. Shawn isn’t that fat.”

  Everyone’s mental image of me was as a sixteen-year-old prepubescent gymnast. I couldn’t help but believe that the real me was quite a disappointment.

  I understood. I disappointed myself, too. Even though I’d won four medals in the Olympics and a mirror ball trophy on one of America’s most popular TV shows, I was adrift. Though the Olympics and DWTS were both challenging, I had felt alive in the midst of those competitions. Once they were over, there was nothing in my life to anchor me.

  I was back in the hometown I loved, but it suddenly felt dark and heavy. Not only was I no longer a public high school student, I was no longer training. For all intents and purposes, that meant that I was no longer a gymnast. I was a former gymnast. A former Olympic champion. A former athlete. And now that the show was over, dancing had gone away too. After devoting so much of my life to those two activities, I felt as if I had nothing left.

  Sure, all kinds of opportunities were offered to me—movie roles, appearances, endorsements—and I had no problem keeping busy. When I was at the 2009 Visa Championships, attending as a spectator for the first time ever, I remember a reporter asking me, “How great is it to be Shawn Johnson these days?”

  I said what I think she expected me to say, which was that I was having the time of my life. However, the second part of my answer was a more accurate reflection of my feelings: “I can’t wait for it to die down a little so I can sort things out.”

  Throughout 2009, I was asked over and over whether or not I planned to compete for a spot on the 2012 Olympic Team. At that point, I wasn’t sure my heart was ready to commit to that. After all, I knew the tremendous physical, mental, and emotional toll that level of training took. I also knew I would give anything to once again experience the mountaintop emotions I had felt while competing at the Olympics. I couldn’t deny feeling a sense of loss, either. I’d often said that gymnastics was my life, and now it was like a part of me had died.

  It took a long time for me to get back into the rhythm of things. I was determined to get back in shape, too, but I struggled with learning how to work out on my own, eat a healthy diet, and take care of myself. Physically and mentally, I was at the unhealthiest point in my life.

  Thankfully, after a few months I realized that I was struggling in part because the smooth-talking, red-carpet-walking persona I’d adopted is not really who I am. Hitting a low forced me to learn how to be me again . . . away from the limelight. It wasn’t always easy, and not everyone was happy to see me jump off my pedestal.

  Lesson I’ve Learned

  Take time to discover who you are as an individual, and don’t let anyone else define you.

  Chapter 27

  Shaping Up

  To be nobody but yourself in a world that’s doing its best to make you somebody else, is to fight the hardest battle you are ever going to fight. Never stop fighting.

  —e. e. cummings

  ONE NIGHT SHORTLY after I was back in West Des Moines, I went out on a date with a guy I liked. Once we were seated at our table in an elegant restaurant, I felt myself relax. I was enjoying a delicious meal and interesting conversation when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone nervously circling our table.

  Don’t do it. . . . Don’t do it, I thought, while trying to maintain eye contact with my date. Eventually, the pacing woman got over her inhibitions enough to approach the table.

  “I know I shouldn’t be doing this,” she said. “Sorry to interrupt your meal, but I just wanted to ask you . . .”

  My dates were interrupted so frequently by people seeking autographs that I often felt like I was on a group date. Consequently, it was hard to get to know anybody in a real and meaningful way.

  One guy seemed promising, though. We found a great place to eat, and none of the other diners seemed to notice that we were there. We talked about my life for a while, and then I asked about his family, work, and hobbies.

  “Well, I actually like to watch gymnastics,” he said.

  “Really?” I took a bite of veggies. He hadn’t mentioned even knowing about my gymnastics life before this moment.

  “You know, I actually came to your welcome home event.”

  “Wow,” I said, taking a sip of water. “You came to that?”

  “Sure! I was there at Wells Fargo Arena,” he said. “I was one of the thousands and thousands of people screaming for you.”

  “I thought you looked familiar,” I joked.

  Then he leaned in and said, “I’ve actually followed you throughout your whole career. I’m such a fan.”

  “Thanks,” I said, before asking, “Well, who’d you go to the welcome home party with?”

  “Oh, nobody,” he said. “I just went by myself.”

  Suddenly, images of this single guy going to a welcome home party for a sixteen-year-old gymnast by himself seemed a little odd.

  Uhhh, check please?

  While I may not have known my next long-term goal, I have always known that one day I want to settle down, have children, and lead a peaceful life filled with playdates and family outings.

  My parents had created that type of life for themselves. Once, when I was a kid, I asked Mom what she later told me was the most difficult question ever: “How will I be able to find someone as good
as Daddy?”

  My father is not a loud, opinionated man. He parents by example, which is probably the only way that really works. I’ve always been a daddy’s girl, and Mom says we share some of the same characteristics. He’s not afraid of hard work, loves adventure, and always has wise advice. As a kid, I couldn’t imagine ever finding someone who was as well-suited for me as my parents are for each other.

  I remember Mom telling me, “Don’t worry. You’ll find a man who shares the same values we’ve taught you.” Now that I was back in my hometown so many years later, I wondered if she was right. I’d gotten a hint of what such a relationship might be like when I was hanging out with Taylor in Beijing. While he remained a good friend, and one of the few who understood what I’d experienced at the Olympics, distance prevented our relationship from developing further.

  Not only was I trying to rebuild my social life, but I also wanted to focus on getting back in shape. Through a former teammate from Chow’s, I met a wonderful trainer—another former gymnast—who understood what my body had gone through over the past few years. Together we devised a healthy nutrition plan that would help me gradually lose the unwanted pounds. We went to the gym regularly, and I slowly began to reclaim my body. She was the perfect trainer for me. She knew exactly how to motivate me into a higher gear and exactly when to lay off a bit.

  “Have you ever run a half marathon before?” she asked one morning at the gym.

  “No,” I responded. Gymnasts don’t need the kind of stamina that comes from long-distance running, after all. The farthest I’d ever run at this point was around three miles. “But I’m in if you are!”

  After training for several weeks, running shorter distances on the weekdays and longer runs on the weekends, we were ready for the 13.1-mile race. I was excited for a new physical challenge. How hard could it be?

  When I met my trainer at the race, however, she took one look at me and frowned. “Are those new shoes?”

  “Do you like them?” I asked, turning one foot to the side to show them off. I wanted to look cute for my big day.

  “They’re nice,” she said. “But new running shoes will be stiff at first. I’m afraid that you’ll get blisters.”

  Of course, I’d never thought of that. The race began well enough, but ultimately she was right. The pain started in my heel, and I tried to compensate by putting less weight on that leg. Then I got another blister on my other heel.

  “I can’t do it,” I told my trainer. But she encouraged me to keep going.

  “Come on,” she said. “We can’t walk.”

  The eleventh mile was the hardest. But finally, mercifully, I crossed the finish line and just collapsed. My legs and feet hurt terribly. After those thirteen miles, my whole body went into shock, and I sat down, exhausted.

  “I can’t move!”

  But even though I didn’t know if I’d ever get up again, inside I felt great! I was beginning to feel a little more like the old Shawn: competitive, athletic, driven. I could be all of those things without gymnastics, right?

  Most days, I was thrilled to be free of the rigorous training schedule of my old life. I hadn’t seen Coach Chow often, and I sometimes wondered how he was doing. I had heard he’d gotten an influx of new students after we returned from Beijing and was busy training more Olympic hopefuls.

  I was glad to be back in shape in case I decided I wanted to return to gymnastics, but I wasn’t ready to make that commitment yet.

  Lesson I’ve Learned

  Choose an exercise partner or a fitness program that will keep you from slacking off, move you along steadily toward your fitness goals, and yet allow you some breathing room when you need it.

  Chapter 28

  How God Became More Real to Me

  Where there is great love, there are always miracles.

  —Willa Cather

  ONE DAY, MY TRAINER introduced me to Ryan, a redshirt football player for the University of Iowa. I learned he was in town to support his older sister, who was battling stage 4 non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. He’d come to offer encouragement and help her with her four kids. I immediately liked him, and it seemed reciprocal. After a Facebook mix-up (in which he sent a message to the wrong Shawn Johnson), we began hanging out: I went to his games, we hung out in Iowa City, and he even came to my mom’s birthday party.

  One night, I had an idea.

  “Why don’t you come to West Des Moines? I’ll take you out for a real date—my treat.” Even though I love it when guys act like gentlemen by paying for dates, I sometimes feel bad when they’re always expected to pay. He was a college student, after all.

  The next week, he drove to West Des Moines, and I took him to HuHot, my favorite Mongolian restaurant. It’s a little loud and decidedly not romantic—in other words, it was perfect. We ordered our appetizers and drinks and then walked around to the grilling area to decide among the many food options. At this restaurant, the customers select vegetables—my favorite!—meats, and then sauces. We piled our bowls high, passed them to the chef, and watched as our food was prepared on a huge grill.

  We ordered a lot of food—partly because Ryan is a big football player who needs to eat large portions, but mostly because I wanted to treat him to a nice evening. After we ate our meals, we ordered the cheesecake empanadas, desserts that look like ravioli but are actually filled with cheesecake.

  Why not? I thought. Since I was paying, we just kept racking up the bill. When we got the check, I made a big show of grabbing it and handing the waitress my credit card.

  “Remember,” I said, “this is on me!” As we finished nibbling the last of the empanadas, I felt our date had been a resounding success. But just a few minutes later, the waitress sheepishly approached my side of the table.

  “Miss Johnson,” the embarrassed waitress said, slipping my credit card into my hand. “There seems to be a problem with your card.”

  “It didn’t work?” I asked. But then I could tell by her expression that she was trying to help me save face.

  “Oh,” I smiled at Ryan. “Don’t worry. I have another credit card in my car.”

  I ran outside and scrounged through the console and the glove compartment for another credit card. I found sunglasses, an old parking ticket, and some stale gum, but nothing that would help me get out of this humiliating situation. I grabbed my phone and hoped Mom or Dad would answer.

  “Mom!” I said into my phone. “My credit card was declined!”

  “What?” she asked.

  “I may have forgotten to pay on time or something,” I said, realizing that every second spent in the parking lot was making it more awkward for Ryan. “What should I do?”

  “I don’t think I can get there in time,” she said.

  “He’s never going to go on another date with me!” I cried into the phone, finally slamming the door shut and hanging up.

  When Ryan saw me slink back into the restaurant, hanging my head in shame, he smiled and gave the waitress his credit card. I figured I’d never see him again.

  Surprisingly, Ryan didn’t stop calling after I stuck him with the bill at HuHot. We kept hanging out, and our friendship grew. After my time in Hollywood, Ryan helped bring me back down to earth and made me realize that I’m a Midwestern girl at heart. Like me, he comes from a close-knit, physically active family. My parents have always loved nature and the outdoors, and his family does too. They own a cabin on a lake in Iowa, and Ryan loves to hunt and fish. As a college football player, he is committed to athletics and a healthy lifestyle, just like I am.

  Early in our relationship, I let Ryan read a few of my poems. One day, he jokingly told me that he would know I really cared for him only if I wrote a poem about him. In fact, as our friendship deepened, that’s exactly how I chose to express my feelings:

  It’s strange how guys come in and out of your life,

  always hoping they’ll be Mr. Right. . . .

  They’ll change you and make you want to cry.

  And neve
r really understanding why,

  you’ll notice that with each one you seem to change,

  adapting to interests so you seem the same;

  acting for some and hiding for others,

  just wanting to be accepted and love each other.

  But it’s the ones that end wrong and seem right from the start

  that change you the most and break you apart.

  You act like a stranger and look in a mirror

  and don’t even recognize who’s standing there.

  Unlike the guys I’d dated who were drawn to me because of what I’d done, Ryan was interested in the person I was inside. As a result, I felt I could relax around him and be myself:

  I don’t know where he came from or how long he will stay,

  but I promise that I can safely say,

  I am now happy, and it is the first time in a while.

  And around him it’s my heart that seems to smile.

  In the summer, Ryan moved to West Des Moines to be closer to his sister and her husband. He took care of their four kids, mowed their grass, and shopped for groceries. Though I couldn’t do much to help, I volunteered to take the kids to the movies and out for ice cream. I thought the extra attention might help distract them from the day-to-day reality of their mom’s sickness.

  Anything I did for those kids was nothing compared to what Ryan’s sister did for me. I never saw her complain. When I went to Omaha with the family for her chemotherapy treatments, everyone seemed to be faithful, patient, loving, and—most of all—prayerful. People from their church and neighborhood provided a hot dinner every night. A cleaning service donated their time to dust and vacuum her home, since she wasn’t able to follow her four young children around with a mop. Ryan’s parents sometimes brought the kids to their home for a week.