My second Saturday workout. Excited, nervous. I went in and grabbed a lacrosse ball and was working on releasing my hip when another new woman who was filling out paperwork asked, "How do you spell sciatica?" Stephan, walking in front of her, trained a finger at me and kept walking. I chimed in, "S-C-I-A-T-I-C-A!" and he gave me a thumbs up. Even after a week, people know things about me. This thrills me to pieces.

Warmup was the same as last week, but the workout was not. This workout was 15 minutes AMRAP: fence run, 5 pushups, 15 air squats, and 20 single jump-rope skips. Okay. I haven't jumped rope in 30 years, but I'm game to try.

It turns out that jumping rope is similar to riding a bicycle: once you learn it, you don't really forget it. With a tiny bit of practice I was able to spin out my 20 jumps in one go. The challenge of the fence run is still there. But again, I'm game to do anything.

First round: okay, I got this. Second round: fence run again?? Third round: can I just do all pushups and squats? Fourth round: Which way is the fence? I'm kinda lost...

I've been reading about the mental side of Crossfit, and what I am discovering is fascinating. The brain, of course, controls all movement. But it is the linking together of those movements that is lacking in modern gyms. It is one thing to have strong thighs that can extend under the weight of a machine that works your quads, or to have glutes that will contract when you do the leg press machine. It is another thing entirely to have legs that will move you through a squat while your arms and torso counterbalance your weight and stabilize your pelvis. Crossfit is not a gym, and it is not a gym workout. This is something different.

There's also something that happens, a tunnel vision of sorts, when you are working this hard in the middle of an AMRAP. I'm fine for the first couple of rounds. After that my focus and my awareness shift. I don't know where my brain goes, but I've had it happen every single time. I can only focus on the next set of exercises, and nothing else. I can only conceive of doing those exercises. When I finished the fourth set of the workout today, I had one minute to go on the timer. A new round would start with the 240-meter fence run, and I knew I wasn't going to get out to the fence and back before time was called. Stephan said, "that's okay, that's okay, just keep moving." So I WALKED IN CIRCLES. It didn't occur to me until much later that I could continue with the pushups or the squats, or pick up my jump rope again. My brain was so focused on directing the next step of this incredible exertion that no other rational thought got through.

I think this is how people get hurt in Crossfit. You really are not aware of what you're doing, you're just focused on the next repetition, the next set, the next round. When you come out of the fog you realize things like "I probably should have worn my ankle brace" or "wow, knees don't like jump roping after a 30 year break," but when you're doing it you really don't know these things. That's why the coaches are so important (there were four monitoring the class). I had Stephan and Mick show up by my elbow several times to either correct me or check on me. One thing this box is is attentive.

I feel safe here. And I am the slowest, I am the heaviest. But no one comments except to say good things and encourage me. No one reviles me. No one is openly disgusted by me. I feel safe moving and challenging myself, living in my body and interacting with my body in a way I never have before.

Alarm at 4:50 and fully clothed at 4:56. Let's do this.

Out the door for a fence run. Easier. Not easy, mind, but easier. Our SWOD (strength WOD) was deadlift, 5 sets of 3. I've done, deadlift, I know deadlift. I was intimidated by the WOD to come, though, so I played it easy. Form was great, though, and both Ryan and Stephan approved.

The WOD was simple, or looked simple...8 minute AMRAP, 10 box jumps and 5 hand stand push ups (HSPUs). I'm afraid of falling and thus jumping, but I'm game to try. Everything is modified to hell and back for me but I feel no shaming or frustration or resentment from anyone else in the box. Everyone is encouraging and accepting. My little stack of 45s procured, I agreed with Ryan that I would do overhead press with a 33# bar instead of HSPUs.

I was positioned so my back was to the clock. The box jump is a squat jump with arms for propulsion, with a perfect upright posture lockout at the top. I worked on my form and didn't worry about speed. The bar was leaning on the wall behind me, and I would finish my jumps and grab it, clean it up to my chest, then lock everything in solid and press from my chest to overhead.

First round. We do this for 8 minutes? Nothing else? Second round. Bend your knees, lock out! Swing your arms, lock out! Third round. Who thought overhead presses was a good idea? Fourth round. Must be getting low on time, don't look don't look!! Fifth round. Jump jump jump jump jump..."TEN SECONDS!" JUMP JUMP JUMP!!!

8 minutes later, I sat on my plates and panted. Never, ever think a WOD might be too easy.

I have been thinking about Crossfit all day. I'm just a few chapters in to Learning to Breathe Fire, and I've just finished reading about Nasty Girls and watching the video.

This book fans the flames of a fire that was burning since I finished my first WOD. Herz writes, "...He also encountered the binary response that people have when they see or try Crossfit. Some people get the lightning bolt: this is what I've been looking for! The rest think it's a sign of mental illness." I am definitely one of the lightning bolters.

I want this.

I want this in a deep, essential part of myself.

I want this power, I want this strength, I want this primal experience.

I want this enough to get out of bed at 4:50am.

I want this enough that I'm willing to face running--something that shames me--and jumping--something that scares me--every time I go.

I want this enough to try--and fail--with people watching.

I want this enough to be stiff and sore every single minute of the next day. Every single minute, period.

I want this enough to work my ass off for it.

I want this enough to change everything for it.

My third workout. I pulled up to a dark box at 5:20am. Ummm...a quick check of the online schedule didn't indicate changes, so I decided to wait it out. A chugging Harley slid by in front of me and stopped in front of the glass wall. This rider was male, that was all I could see. Good enough.

Water bottle and phone in hand, I jumped out and said, "Hi Mick!" No answer. "Hi Mick!" The head turned. "Oh, I'm not Mick. You mean Ryan." I rolled with it. "Hi Ryan!" Conversations in the dark are awkward unless they're the whispered, bodies-pressed-close-together kind. We went inside and Ryan turned on the lights.

Ryan kept writing on the board, line after line. Plank hold. Weighted pull ups. 12 minute AMRAP: Fence run with med ball? Wall ball shots? He wrote and wrote.

"Fence run! Warm it up!" Without pause we flowed out the door. The run felt easier, shorter. I turned and trotted back up the hill.

"Get in a circle! Grab a med ball!" Gathered in a circle, we started throwing the med balls to our right, catching and squatting and throwing in one smooth motion. It was rhythmic and soothing, despite all the balls being different weights and thus unexpected changes in impact force, until Ryan called a stop.

"Everyone with a ball, 10 squats! Without, touch your toes!" I hugged my ball close to my chest and did 10 squats as low as I could go. The last to finish, I stood up and tossed to my left. The next two stops I stretched my hamstrings. Score! We scattered for space.

"Can you do pullups?" Ryan appeared at my side.

"I'm going to do ring rows," I said confidently. I set the timer on my phone. On my knees, then on my elbows, then on my toes. Go!

First 30 seconds. Easy. 3 ring rows. Easy. Second 30 seconds. Maybe easy? 3 ring rows. Easy. Third 30 seconds. Wait, when did this get longer? 3 ring rows. Ugh. Fourth 30 seconds. I can't...knees...hands...wait...flailing... 3 ring rows. Thank god that's over...

I glanced at the whiteboard. Fence run with med ball. I'm enthusiastic and I'm willing, but I'm also well trained as a therapist and I'm not stupid. The run itself is enough of a challenge for me right now, so I headed toward the fence with empty hands, figuring the extra weight I carry is one hell of a med ball for anyone to be toting. I ran to the fence, and walked most of the way back. Ryan was standing in the doorway watching and shouted, "Good job, Erin!" I hitched up my speed and ran the last 20 meters in. Panting, I tried to assess my next step. I grabbed a med ball and approximated a ball shot.

"Get closer," Ryan appeared again by my side. "Closer. Use your chest, not your arms." I finished and flipped around to find a kettlebell for situps. 10 down, I climbed to my feet. Another run. Walk. Struggle? 5 more ball shots. "Get closer," again from Ryan. 10 more situps. ANOTHER run? How is this not over yet? 5 wall shots. 10 situps. I hate kettlebells I hate kettlebells... MORE RUNNING?? HOW IS THIS NOT OVER?? 5 more ball shots. Back on the floor for the damned kettlebell. Go go go GOGOGO..."TIME!" yelled Ryan.

My hands clutched the kettlebell on the floor above my head and I let go. Arms flung out and knees flopped to the sides, I breathed and felt my heartbeat throb in my fingertips. My lungs heaved as I panted. I'm not entirely sure my legs were still attached. I concentrated on imagining the blood pumping steadily through my veins, feeling my chest pulse.

A stranger's face appeared above me. With a smile he looked down at me and said, "That's my favorite position," and moved away once I answered, "Mine too." I sat up when my name was called and yelled, "4 plus 12!" I was determined to get credit for my 4 fence runs.

"Alright, 20 burpees!" The box erupted in a chorus of protests. Ryan addressed me again. "Can you do a burpee?"

"I don't know what one is," I confessed. He demonstrated, and I hesitated, twirling my wrist thoughtfully. His eyes noticed the long scar on the inside of my wrist, and I lifted my arm to show the long scar on the back of my elbow.

"Oh, I know who you are. I heard about you," Ryan blurted.

"Oh god, I don't want to know," I could only chuckle briefly. We figured out a modification for burpees just for me, and I finished my 20.

"Extra credit, 50 box jumps!" Ryan yelled, then looked at me again. "Can you jump?"

"Um...gravity really likes me," I faltered. "I'm really stuck to the ground. I get hurt when I fall. I tend to break things." I'm afraid of falling, and avoid jumping as much as possible.

He stacked two 45 pound bumper plates in front of me. "Can you jump up on that?" I tried, catching my toes on the edge and failing. "Okay, squat and swing your arms. Good, you've almost got it. Good, there, got it! Now stand up straight when you land on it, then hop or step off. Got it!" Ryan moved away again and I continued working. After 20 jumps, I was spent.

It was an hour of facing weakness and failure and fear, and...

I want more.

Everything was set up the night before. Breakfast was cooked and ready to be reheated, gym clothes were set out, lunch was packed, dinner was prepped in the crockpot and waiting in the fridge. I rolled out of bed at 5am, jumped in my clothes, and was out the door by 5:07.

Mick was writing the WOD on the board when I got there. Jerk? Don't know that. Thruster? Don't know that. Strict pullup? Can't do those. Looks like this one will be entirely scaled (modified).

I was standing in the center of the room and Mick looked around. "Everybody! This is Erin!" I turned and waved. The room milled into action, getting setup and working through the warmup.

Mick came over to me. "Do you know what a jerk is?" I shook my head. "Right." He showed me where the bars are stored, where the PVC pipe is, where the medicine balls are. "When you squat, squat to this," he said, dropping a 20 pound medicine ball at my feet.

I picked up an empty training bar--20 pounds--and Mick talked me through the movement. The jerk is a movement designed to move your body under the weight held on your chest--you are not moving it over you, you are moving under it. I practiced the hop-lunge-extend-step move until he was satisfied that I wouldn't hurt myself, and moved away to help others.

For strict pullups I did ring rows. Thrusters turned out to be squat presses, with which I am familiar, and I did those with the 20 pound bar. There were about a dozen people in the class, so we set up for a Girls and then a Boys round, 5 minute AMRAP of 3 Pullups (I did 5 rows) and 5 thrusters. First round, easy. Second round, easy. Third round...wait what happened to my thighs? Fourth round...how is this not over yet? Fifth round...can I dawdle? Time is counting! Row! Row! Row! Now grab that $#(*$^ bar and get down...

"Time!" Yelled Mick. "Ladies, change places." I panted. Was that really only 5 minutes? Only FIVE MINUTES? Without pause I turned and ran out the door for the fence, encouraging my knees to lift. To the fence wasn't as much of a challenge as I expected, but when I turned to come back up the small rise my heart stuttered. I walked to the top end of the parking spaces, then turned and ran to the fence again. Satisfied, I walked back inside.

Grabbing my water and sucking it down eagerly, I held up four fingers and then 5 when Mick called my name. Promising Mick I'd foam roll at work, I sped home. My thighs are going to hate me later, and I eagerly anticipate it.

Today I know I did Crossfit yesterday. My lats are sore. My inner thighs are killing me. I walk with a slight limp, a list to the left. Standing up is not so bad, but sitting down is of the "aim and fall" variety. I am constantly grateful that there are things--chair arms, counters--to hold on to in this house.

I feel glorious.

I didn't sleep until about 2:30 this morning. I woke up around 8:30. For me, this is reasonable, or at least what I've gotten used to. I made breakfast and ate half of it, then lost interest. I've been drinking water like it's going out of style--I'm on my third liter. I feel really good. I feel happy. I feel motivated. I feel present in my body, and I feel like my body is happy with me right now.

I keep thinking about that fence. That fence is an obvious weakness, and I want to tackle it. I want to go do some fence runs right now, but given the state of my walk I think an attempted run would be a bad idea. CF is known for the balls-to-the-wall attitude of its members, and you don't have to search hard to find horror stories of permanent injuries acquired in boxes.

I have long been disappointed in my body. I have long struggled with accepting that it is what it is, and have been known to push too hard and ignore my own signals and my training. My frustration with my body is low right now, though. I am feeling motivated, yes, but not impatient.

Tomorrow morning at 5:30am I'll be back in the box. My body needs rest today.

"Today is the first day of the rest of your life." --Charles Dederich

Raised in a military family, I am never late. "If you are on time, you are already late" is a saying that I live by. Sometimes I am very early and have time to kill. This is made more pronounced when I'm excited, and I was definitely that.

I showed up at 8:15 for the 9:00 class. I told more about myself to Stephan, the coach. We brainstormed on ways to work around my injuries. The car accident I was in severely traumatized my left arm, and there are certain things I just cannot do. In the 17 years since that accident I've had a lot of experience working with my limitations. Stephan gave me paperwork to fill out and I dutifully answered questions outlining my health--aside from my arm and my weight, I'm rudely healthy. The last question stopped me.

"Is there anything else you would like us to know about you?"

I looked out the window. I looked into the room. I felt a rush of eagerness, poised my pen, and wrote.  I read my answer and added a caret. Satisfied, I set the clipboard down.  Other people were arriving.

"I don't have the body that I want (yet), but I'm all in."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Stephan introduced me around. I shook hands with a few people, smiled and waved to a couple more. A couple set up a portable playpen and deposited a cherubic, curly-haired little girl with a huge smile, and I noticed that everyone in the box went out of their way to greet this happy little thing. Stephan listed names on the whiteboard below the WOD. He turned to me. "Erin with an E?" I nodded. He turned and told us what equipment to grab and set up, then told us all to "run for the fence".

The box is in the front corner of an industrial building, as most boxes are. Next to the building is a parking strip surrounded by a fence that butts up on a freeway offramp. Another class member told me it was about 240 meters to the fence and back. Game enough, I jogged out the door and across the parking lot with her. "I was told that if you don't touch the fence it doesn't count," she said, so I lightly tapped it as I swung around. The trip back is a slight incline. Midpack, I wasn't going to wimp out on the first exercise. We gathered at the gate by the door.

"Side lunge to the van and back," Stephan said. "Lunge and turn, lunge and turn." We started out. Because I am a physical therapist assistant I know what exercises are. Because I have exercised for so long I have a general body awareness. Because I am out of shape right now, I struggle with moving my body. Stephan coached, "Keep your chests upright when you lunge. Not this," he demonstrated, "but this." I straightened my torso. He nodded. I appreciated not being called out as the only new member of the group, but still being helped and corrected. This was promising!

"Now forward lunge. Arms up, hands behind your heads!" We set out for the van again, then turned and went into the box. I found my bar--empty--and waited while Stephan set the clock. "You have 20 minutes. Do these exercises: 5 rows! 10 pushups! 15 squats! 400 meter run! As many rounds as possible. And...GO!"

I flattened my back, bent to my bar, positioned it at my shins and rowed 5 times, then set the bar down and dropped to my knees. My left wrist doesn't extend as much as it should, and my left elbow has about 80 degrees of motion. I can't straighten my arm fully, nor can I bend it much past halfway. I did what I could, 10 pushups my way. I jumped up and started squatting. Stephan came to stand in front of me and spoke quietly and encouragingly. "Chest up," he said, and I straightened. "Drop into it. Make it more about your butt." He held his hands up in front of me and I put mine up in front of his. I kept squatting. "Good, We'll worry about depth later," he said. I barked a laugh and said, "that's what she said." He laughed and I said, "... and I just lost count." He laughed again.

Right now, a 400 meter run up the short hill outside isn't reasonable. Stephan agreed that I could do the 240 meter fence run instead, so I headed out the door again. Free of other class members, I hitched up to a run. My feet skittered at the fence as I tried to turn and touch the fence at the same time, and I headed back up the small rise. Done! I came in the side door and headed back to my bar for round 2. I noticed the clock said 2:43, and people around me were either not back yet--having gone out for the 400 meter run--or were barely starting their second set of rows. Was that right? How did I do that? Huh. I started again.

5 rows. Bang. 10  knee pushups. Bang. 15 squats, chest upright. Bang. I headed out the door and changed my mind.

Stephan mentioned that 500 meters on the rower was also an option, so I sat down to try that. Truth be told running is hard for me, and I was already feeling intimidated by the idea of running for the fence again. I strapped my feet in and picked up the bar. Push and pull, push and pull. Stephan stepped out. "A longer, sharp pull will get you further faster," he encouraged me. "Snap it back. All the way forward then snap back." The rower next to me was pulling all the way to her throat, but my elbow just won't do that. I pulled to my chest and made sure to come all the way forward. 500 meters down.

The clock was on 9:43 when I stepped back inside. I decided that rowing definitely was not my sport and went back to my bar. 5 rows. 10 knee pushups. Stephan moved me to a pole. "Hold on here--feet closer...there...upright. Sink into it. Chest up...slide down. There," he moved away and I continued. My thighs were definitely burning and I knew the fence run was coming fast. I finished my 15 and went out the door with protesting thighs. Running was not going to happen. Knees up! I told myself. Just a jog! Knees up! There was nothing left. I could jog 3 steps and then my legs would refuse to lift. Okay. I jogged 3, walked 4. Jogged 3, walked 4. Tagged the fence. Were there cars on the freeway on the other side of the fence? I have absolutely no idea. Turned around. Walked as fast as I could back to the door. Stephan high-fived me and said, "You're doing great!" as I headed for my bar again. At this point I barely noticed if people were in the room. Behind me Stephan yelled, "You have FIVE MINUTES on the clock!" He appeared in front of me again. "Remember to breathe," he reminded me. "I say that to all my patients," I laughed. He nodded, and I bent for my bar.

5 rows. Bang. 10 knee pushups. It was really hard to get on the floor, and my arms were noticing but not failing. Up for my pole-squats. I struggled to get one foot under me, put both hands on my knee and pushed myself upright. I turned around and wobbled on suddenly unsteady legs to my pole. I carefully positioned myself and started my set.

"5...4...3...2...1! TIME!" Stephan yelled. I stopped squatting, thankful there was no more running ahead of me. I did the math in my head. When you're doing an AMRAP (As Many Rounds As Possible) workout, you count completed rounds and then add up the total repetitions you've completed on the last round when time is called. 5 rows + 10  knee pushups + 9 squats put me at 3 + 24. I reported it when Stephan recorded all of our scores on the whiteboard under the workout.

I seriously contemplated just falling down to get to the floor for the cool down stretch. I helped myself up afterward and gleefully noted that I was going to be sore--I was already sore. Breathing slowed my heartrate. I am very pale and turn pink with even slight exertion. My face was--probably alarmingly, for anyone who doesn't know me--bright pink and glowing hot. My hands shook. My legs wobbled. I was so sweaty that even the backs of my hands were wet.

I felt awesome. I felt like I had come home. I felt like singing.

I have found my place. This is what my body will do. For this, my body will change. This is what I have been searching for, through the endless hours on ellipticals and in yoga class and Spin class and Pilates, through the self-taught and directed lifting programs, through the long line of gyms and the long years of knowing that I was still looking for something that I couldn't find. This is it. I have been looking for Crossfit, and I have found it. 

In 1990 I was 15, a sophomore in a new high school in California. The new high school was in an affluent part of town, and my family was anything but. I was born military. My father served on submarines for 23 years and retired in 1987. I was well used to starting at new schools--this was my 7th since kindergarten--and resigned to the idea of making new friends again. When a classmate suggested I join her at the gym after school I readily accepted, thinking I could find some way of entertaining myself and she and I could get to be friends through that channel. That afternoon at the local YMCA I familiarized myself with the bikes and treadmills and stair steppers and didn't even glance at the echoing, intimidating room that held the grunting men and the stern iron machines. My companion sweated on a stair stepper and I flailed beside her. We became friends, for as long as a military child ever holds on to friends, meeting up to go to the gym 3 days a week. She and I parted ways at graduation, but her legacy of gyms has stayed with me.

From that gym I belonged to a gym that catered exclusively to women. I went away to college and explored the campus facilities. I came back and went back to my women's gym. I moved away again and ran dizzy circles at another college gym on a track that was 17 laps to a mile, carrying a counter in my hand so I wouldn't have to focus on the tedious laps as they accumulated. I moved to Minnesota and started working at the front desk of a local gym. Test taken and passed, I got my ACE personal trainer certification. I moved to London and eventually found s gym in the basement of a small mall in Bayswater. Hand in hand with my new fiance we came back to California. My old familiar women's gym had closed, but I started work at a new one near my college and began my studies in physical therapy. I made an agreement with my new husband that I must always have room in the budget for a gym membership, and moved from gym to gym as we moved around the city. No matter where I was, I always had a gym.

When I first started at the YMCA all I touched were the cardio machines. Always a sturdy child, tall and muscular and heavy, I was relegated to the end of the line-up-by-height lines so definitively that I went there automatically. That sturdiness wasn't a burden to me until we were stationed in California. Here all the girls were tiny and thin and blonde, their ankles the size of my wrists, the tops of their heads no higher than my enthusiastically developed chest. As a military child you learn to assume the skin of those around you, to blend in as much as possible. I wasn't going to blend in naturally. In the late 80s and early 90s, all the world knew for women was Jane Fonda and Denise Austin. I relentlessly pursued the lanky, lithe California Blonde look, mastering cardio machines and ignoring the iron behemoths in the background. My body, however, did not comply. I was an Amazon in a sea of pixies, and my body refused to change.

Over the years I learned the uses of the machines in the other rooms, the machines that would build muscle. Their use and mastery came easily to me, and my body adapted quickly. I moved from machines to free weights and my body was even more thrilled. Through it all, though, I was surrounded by California pixies. Nowhere was an example of a strong and glorious female form. Instead I was constantly reproached, constantly battered by the accusation that my body wasn't what it was supposed to be, that it did not fit the mold to which it had been designated. I ignored the way my body loved the weights, and pursued that waifish figure on the cardio machines. I moved further and further from both the California pixie and the natural healthy form of my Amazonian body, and struggled to be happy. Something in the back of my heart knew I was on the wrong path, but the pain in the forefront of my brain blocked that message.

And then I heard about Crossfit.

I read the books. In two days I devoured Inside the Box by T.J. Murphy. I went looking for more. I helped myself to First: What It Takes to Win by Rich Froning, now four-time Crossfit games champion. I added Learning to Breathe Fire by J.C. Herz to my reading pile. I plowed my way through pages and pages of the Crossfit website and the associated journal. Something about this was dogging me. I was driven to learn more. Yelp told me where boxes were in my area. The closest box to my home was only 1.5 miles away--score! But it was directed by retired drill instructors. In between a bad car accident that left me permanently disabled (albeit in minor ways, but ways that need to be respected) and a lifetime of a self-effacing personality I knew I couldn't handle an environment in which I was provoked and goaded. Another box in the city was well-known, the box I read about in Murphy's book. I nixed that one, too, again because of my self-effacing tendencies. I knew I'd be intimidated and lost there. Another box was just too far away. Then I found Crossfit Kivnon, or CFK.

The box, founded by a chiropractor, had instructors who themselves had overcome challenges. It was small. It was relatively unknown. It was tucked in an area of the city I knew very well. No answer came to an email I sent to their Contacts page, but I pursued the idea anyway. I drove by several times, parked nearby once.

On the corner at the top of the small hill I stopped to debate my next step. A woman dressed in shocking pink ran out the door and up the hill toward my car. My heart started pounding as she headed toward me. Would she yell at me? Would she ask me what I thought I was doing there? I watched her as she ran by, and breathed a sign of relief. Driving away I made the decision that the next time I would go in. I would be the one initiating contact. I would be the one taking that step. I was terrified.

The next day I got out of work early and impulsively aimed my little car down the freeway toward the box. The box has only three parking spots in front, and when I got there the one by the door was open. Taking it as a sign, I pulled in before I could talk myself out of it. The instructor inside looked at me. I looked at him. I decided I had to go in. The details of that first visit are inconsequential, but the result of it was that I promised to come to the Free/Open class on Saturday. I felt better. I felt welcome. I felt like there was a chance for me, in this box.