Here's the Permission You've Been Waiting For

One afternoon, during a routine chiropractic and rehab session, the conversation drifted to gymnastics. I was feeling strong for the first time in decades — really strong, like an athlete again. I mentioned the old days, half-laughing, nothing serious.

Dr. Saroli smiled and said, "Lori, you should go back. You should find a place to do gymnastics again. Go play."

I froze. It was like someone pressed pause on the entire room.

"Wait... what?" I blinked at him, sure I had misheard.

But he wasn't joking. And in that moment, something happened that I wasn't prepared for. Before the doubt arrived — before the voice in my head could say you're too old or what if you get hurt again — I felt something else. A jolt. Electric and warm and completely unexpected. For half a second, I wasn't a woman in her late forties with two spinal fractures. I was a sixteen-year-old girl who loved to fly.

The Spark Before the Storm

That feeling — the spark — is the part nobody talks about. We skip straight to the fear. We tell the story as if the doubt came first, as if starting over begins with a battle against your own mind.

But that's not how it happened for me. The excitement came first. The possibility. The flash of something alive in a place I thought had gone quiet forever. It was the feeling of a door cracking open after thirty years of believing it was sealed shut.

And then, yes — the doubt arrived. Fast and loud. You're too old. What if you can't do any of it? What if it's humiliating? The questions came in a storm, gathered over years of learning to keep dreams small and expectations realistic.

But here's what I've learned: when excitement arrives before fear, you have a choice. You can let the fear overwrite the spark. Or you can let the spark change the story your fear is trying to tell.

The Search

I didn't give Dr. Saroli an answer that day. I laughed it off — sweet but impossible. But over the next few weeks, he kept bringing it up gently: "Did you look into it yet?" and "You'd be surprised what your body can still do."

Eventually, curiosity won. I opened my laptop and typed "adult gymnastics Long Island" into the search bar. A small part of me hoped nothing would turn up. A bigger part hoped something would.

At first — nothing. I expanded the search. Checked local gyms. Still nothing definitive. I closed the screen with a strange mix of relief and sadness.

But something had changed. I started watching gymnastics again. During the 2016 Rio Olympics, I watched Oksana Chusovitina — a 41-year-old mother competing in her seventh Olympic Games — sprint toward the vault. When she landed, I felt it in my bones. I wasn't crying out of envy. I was crying out of recognition.

The Night Everything Shifted

When I finally found a gym and walked through the door, there were no giggling girls. No judgment. Just a handful of parkour guys flipping across the floor. The owner approached me, warm and curious. I gave him my story — the short version. He didn't dismiss me. He didn't pity me.

"Try a few basics," he said. "See what comes back. Let your body remember."

So I did. A cartwheel. A handstand. Some leaps. It wasn't perfect, but it was mine.

Then he asked: "Want to try a round-off, back handspring?"

I laughed. "No way. I'm way too scared for that."

But he offered to spot me. No pressure. Just support. And something about his belief in me cracked the door open. He spotted me for a standing back handspring. I landed. And then another. And another. It was as if my body, dormant for so long, was suddenly waking up to joy again.

Then I ran, by myself — round-off, back handspring. Landed it. Alone. After thirty-three years.

That night I couldn't sleep. My body was still buzzing, but it was more than adrenaline. I lay in bed replaying the moment — the push off the floor, the arch and snap, the landing. It reminded me of something I used to do as a teenager: lying in the dark, mentally rehearsing routines, willing my body to remember.

And maybe it had. The comeback didn't start in the gym. It started in the mind. In the quiet belief that movement was still possible.

What I'd Say to You

If there's something stirring in you right now — a spark, a whisper, a pull toward something you set aside years ago — I want you to pay attention to it. Not the doubt that follows. Not the reasons it won't work. Pay attention to the spark itself.

That feeling is real. It's not naive and it's not foolish. It's the truest part of you, reminding you that the story isn't over.

You don't need to have it figured out. You don't need to be ready. You don't need anyone to tell you it's okay.

But in case you do — here's your permission. Go.

This post is adapted from themes in Broken to Unbreakable: The Comeback I Never Saw Coming, available in ebook, paperback, and hardcover.