This weekend, I competed in my very first Olympic weightlifting meet.

It was the first time I’d entered a competition in over two years. Back then, it was CrossFit. I did my last competition, decided I was done, and that very same day, I tore my pec during a bench press. The tear was a full belly rupture, so severe it was inoperable. They performed an MRI, scheduled a surgery and then canceled it. There was nothing they could do.

At first, I wanted to give up. A world without bench press felt like one I didn’t want to live in.

But my coach, Olympian Jenny Arthur Vardanian, wouldn’t let me. She encouraged me to keep going. Come in. Do accessory work. Train around the injury. See what you’re still capable of. I had a follow-up appointment a month later. By then, I was strict pressing 80 kilos. Probably not what the doctor wanted to hear, but I had to find out what was still possible.

That was two years ago. Thanks to great coaching and stubborn consistency, I got stronger again. My clean and jerk started to take shape. My snatch was improving daily. Last July, around Independence Day, I started thinking about competing again. I wasn’t committed, just considering it. Then, during a volleyball game with friends, I decided to wear shoes on the grass for no good reason. I sprinted back for a play, and I felt a pop in my knee.

Tore my MCL.

Once again, I wanted to stop. But once again, Jenny stepped in. Come in. Let’s work on strict presses, lockouts, posture (apparently, my posture needed work – Thanks Jenny – lol). She kept me moving. Kept me focused on a comeback.

While all of this was happening, my job was shifting. I had been promoted to Senior Director of Account Management. Things were going well on the surface, but the company was being gutted by private equity. I saw the writing on the wall and stepped down. I took on a role rebuilding three departments from scratch: social, influencer, and email. It felt like starting over.

And honestly, going to work every day was tough. Mentally, I was struggling. The only place I found any peace was in the gym. Weightlifting demands a few seconds of perfection. Just a moment where everything else disappears, and it’s on you to deliver. That clarity became something I craved.

Eventually, I was laid off. It was hard, but my network came through. I found a new role that’s more balanced, with less stress and no fear of someone coming after my job.

When I returned to training full time, long before this meet, I made a promise to my coach. I said I’d listen more. I’d let go of my ego. I’d do whatever she asked, and I meant it. I’ve kept that promise.

Anytime I’m at a crossroads, in work, in marriage, in training, I ask the same question: “What can I do to get better?” To ask that sincerely, you have to be open. You have to be willing to take feedback and do something with it.

It hasn’t been easy. I deal with ADHD. I carry childhood baggage. My mind is constantly racing. But it all comes back to the same battle. Me versus me.

Me versus my mindset.
Me versus my ego.
Me versus the urge to quit.
Me versus past failures.

So back to the meet. My coach encouraged me to go for it. I wasn’t chasing a medal. I wasn’t out to impress anyone. But I was the only person in my age group and weight class. That meant all I had to do was make one snatch and one clean and jerk to place. Miss them, and I walk away with nothing. Another me versus me moment.

No total, no medal, no podium.

The night before, I couldn’t sleep. All the usual doubts came creeping in. What if I missed? What if I got hurt again? What if all this training led nowhere?

When it was finally time, I stepped up for my first snatch and hit it. That was the moment I knew I’d walk away with something. Made the second lift. Missed the third, but I knew exactly what went wrong. I even smiled about it on video because I recognized the mistake.

Then came clean and jerks. I missed my first attempt. That raised the stakes. Miss all three and I bomb out. No total. I reset, quieted the noise in my head, and nailed the second. Then the third. Two out of three. I walked away with a 194 total: just one kilo shy of my declared 195.

It wasn’t my strongest performance on paper, but it didn’t matter.

Yes, I was the only person in my class. Yes, that meant a guaranteed medal if I made my lifts. But that “if” was the whole point. No one else could lift the bar for me. I had to show up. I had to fight my fear, my ego, my self-doubt. And I had to make those lifts.

Norik Vardanian, another of my Olympian coaches, was there setting up my numbers. He’s been a consistent presence and source of wisdom throughout my training as well. Before each lift, he reminded me, “I’m not going to put you out there to do anything you can’t do. These numbers are yours.”

That trust mattered. That support mattered.

In the end, this meet wasn’t about beating anyone else. It was about proving I could still compete. That I could stay composed. That I could finish.

And I did.

The medal I wasn’t chasing is now a physical reminder of every time I got back up. Every day I pushed forward. Every round I went with the version of myself that wanted to quit.

It may not mean much to others. But for me, after everything I’ve fought through, it means a hell of a lot.

So yeah, I came in first. I even made a silly podium photo with just me on it. But that medal isn’t for show. It’s a win against my own limitations.

It’s always been me versus me.

And this time.

I won.