Michaela Keast

Back in 2020, as our lives were turned upside down with a pandemic, I wrote a piece that ended up being published in a short-lived online magazine called Calisthenics Chronicles. This was an article that was very personal, and one that I still treasure. I’ve done a lot more living (and competing, and coaching) since then, and although I think I’ve improved as both a coach and a writer, I still feel that the sentiment holds. This piece is a revised version of the original published piece from 2020.

This was the first blog post I had in mind when I decided to launch The Calisthenics Blog. After a relatively successful 2023 competition season, I wanted to revisit this piece. I love this story and the sentiment behind it, and I hope it provides a sense of comfort to you, or helps you remember that, perhaps, there’s a lot more to calisthenics than the competition.

Calisthenics is a competitive sport at its heart. While we have fun along the way, ultimately, the goal is the win at the competition. It’s the guiding force that keeps us working every week, to push ourselves to our personal bests, and hope and pray that that is enough for us to come out on top at the end of the day. The win is everything. At least, that was what I believed.

I was never what you would consider a ‘star’ of calisthenics. I had won competitions before, both in teams and as a soloist, but it was never expected. Flexibility and technique didn’t come easy to me. I have been very lucky as a competitor, placing in nearly every competition I have ever entered, but up until 2019 I could count the amount of wins I had achieved on one hand, both as a competitor and a coach.

In 2019, that changed. I was very lucky to have been part of three teams that ended up winning the aggregate at their major competition. Each win was special to me for a different reason, but I came to a realization at the end of the competition season that changed my entire viewpoint on calisthenics: winning isn’t everything.

Sure, it’s nice to gain recognition for something you’ve worked hard on. The sleepless nights trying to work out how to get something to work just right, the hours outside of lesson choreographing, and going insane with that one bit of music that won’t cut right no matter how hard you try. Each win that I took part in taught me a lesson, one that I believe every coach should learn, and one that I would like to share to hopefully take the pressure off, no matter how experienced you are.

Nothing changes when you win.

I had the privilege to travel to Perth for the 2019 ACF Nationals as one of SA’s coaching staff. Whilst I did contribute to the team, giving suggestions and working with the students to ensure they were performing at their best, it wasn’t my team or my choreography. When we won, it was an experience I will never forget. The smiles on the faces of the 24 most hardworking kids I had ever seen made the day even more memorable.

If I’m being honest, I still have impostor syndrome with that experience. I don’t like to claim it, because it isn’t mine to claim. The head coaches did a large majority of the work and the team members pulled it off; I was merely an extra person to assist where necessary. I learned so much from the experience and I would jump at the chance to do it again, but personally, I don’t feel like I earned the right to say that I won.

I also coached the Intermediate and Senior sections at my club in 2019, as well as participating in the senior team. I did not have a cohesive Intermediate team in 2019. The students were good workers, but the team as a whole struggled to work together. It was my first win as a coach, but I do not remember the aftermath. I was too busy getting focused on the Senior competition, scheduled for the next night. ‘I’ll have time to celebrate later,’ I remember thinking. ‘I’m just stressed about tomorrow.’ Before I knew it I was back in bed, trying to sleep for the final competition of the year.

The senior team was a different story to the above. We had come second in 2017 and 2018, and we were driven to work during the year in order to ensure that we weren’t going to get called out for second place again. We wanted this win. It drove us to push harder at every lesson, and I strongly believe that this drive was what got us over the edge when it came to competitions. When our name was called for the overall aggregate, I was excited, but mostly relieved. The hard work had finally paid off. I went to sleep, and woke up the next day, a shiny new medal hanging off of my curtain rod. But I still didn’t feel any different.

I was exhausted. It was a long competition season and I had compartmentalized my emotions and anxiety until the big day was over. I am a young coach, and I still feel like I have something to prove with every team that I am involved in. I honestly thought that winning would prove to the wider calisthenics community that I am a good coach; that I am capable, and the trophy would prove my ideas and experience to the world. But it didn’t. I’ve been knocked back a hundred times since then. It didn’t matter then, and it still doesn’t. I was seeking validation through a piece of plastic, and a speech that people will skip over on their DVD’s.

I’ve been lucky to have a few more successes since then. And I still feel the same. Yes, it’s lovely to be rewarded for your hard work and achievements. I am so grateful for the students and coaches that I have worked with in the past few years. But, even now, I don’t feel happy when I hear my club or competitor called out. I simply feel relieved. And I don’t know whether that’s how I’m supposed to feel.

I’m preparing for competitions in 2024. Graceful season is just around the corner. And I feel scared. I worry that my ideas are not good enough. I am constantly thinking about ways to create innovative routines, and how to bring out the most in my teams. I am terrified that my past success is all a fluke and that if I can’t recreate it, I am not worthy of the competitors and teams that I coach.

I would also love to say that I don’t care about winning anymore, but I can’t.

I’m still focused on the win, as I think I always will be. But now, when I think back to each competition, I don’t think about the medals and the accolades. I think about the new skills my students learned. I think about the times when my team laughed so hard we couldn’t get through our routine. I remember my 2023 SA Development Team, a team I had been dreaming of coaching since I was 13, coming offstage after dance absolutely elated with their performance, knowing they had competed with excellence throughout the whole competition.

Competition is a large part of calisthenics, and I believe that is a good thing. I love the way it pushes my students to do their best, and ensures continual improvement and work towards a goal. However, I have finally gotten to the point where the win isn’t the end result. At the end of the day, it’s just a trophy. I am trying to reach the point where I am not validated by what teams I coach and how many blue certificates I receive. I want to be validated by the smiles that are on my student’s faces every single week, and the love that we all collectively share for a sport which is, in my opinion, the greatest win of all.