Fifteen Seconds in the Pitt by Juliane Bergmann
The Single Pull-Up Challenge Series: Part 1
"Take it fifteen seconds at a time." I'd just fallen off the rowing machine in front of the entire gym during my first weightlifting and conditioning class with Hef, the trainer. After I climbed back into my seat, I repeated the mantra for the remainder of the 45-minute class. I made it out alive — in 180 fifteen-second increments. When I left, beet red and drenched in sweat, I wasn't sure if I would throw up, pass out, or both.
My youngest daughter, now a freshman in high school, had dislocated her knee in a freak accident the year before. After surgery, her orthopedic surgeon recommended a physical therapist, Brian. As I watched him inspect my daughter's scar and knee mobility, I cringed.
When I started, I could barely hang on the bar for a few seconds.
Decades ago, during a dance workshop at the same age as my daughter, I collided with myself — inside my own body. My left knee separated from the rest of my leg and shot in the wrong direction. I didn't know the pain that had me on the floor screaming, pushing my kneecap back in its place, while a circle of sweaty dancers formed around me, was caused by a dislocation. I didn't know what had happened to me, so I couldn't answer anyone pelting me with questions.
This first memory of feeling betrayed by my body is seared into my cells. Although I'd grown up in a dance studio and continued to take classes for several more years, it wasn't the same. I no longer trusted my body, the traitor. I finally gave up dancing as a senior in high school and spent the next decades mostly sitting on couches and hunched over desks. I decided I was a writer, not a dancer, never considering that I could be both.
It's difficult to describe how much I dissociated from my body after that injury. I couldn't recall the pain without feeling almost nauseous, and although I was terrified of it happening again, it did. The second time I was walking out of the school bathroom, which made me scared of ordinary things, like, well, walking. The third time decades later, after becoming a mom, a friend invited me to a casual dance class at a community center. The pain and cringe factor were the same every time, but each accident added a layer of despair.
I'll never dance again.
I discovered that my anatomy (including different-length legs, a shallow trochlear groove, and damaged tendons) would likely cause additional knee dislocations. When my daughter was referred to Brian, I couldn't expect her to actively participate in her body's recovery when I wasn't setting the example. Twenty-six years after my first injury, I finally decided to take care of myself. I started working with Brian just like my daughter. Over five months, he helped me build strength, specifically in my quads to stabilize my knee cap when bending and my glutes to keep my thighs from rotating inward to relieve stress on my knee joint.
Being able to pull myself up a few inches now is huge progress.
Brian's office is attached to a gym aptly called The Pitt. Painted completely black and echoing with grunts and shouted instructions, it was the stuff of my high school PE nightmares. I watched people work so hard I could see their sweat dripping from a distance. Tattooed ex-military dudes were repping pull-ups at lightning speed before dumping trays of ice into the cold plunge pool that just wasn't quite freezing enough for their tastes.
"You wanna try, don't you?" Brian asked as I finished my exercises.
I'd worn frilly leotards for twelve years growing up. I always got picked last in PE. I was forty years old. I couldn't lift a full coffee pot without shaking.
And yet.
What would it feel like to do a single pull-up, to have that kind of strength in my body? What if I'd never be able to do it? Brian waved Hef over. He grinned: "All you gotta do is get yourself through the door. Let me worry about the rest."
It's now another four months later, and my arm no longer shakes when I pour my coffee. I just squatted my own weight this morning. I still can't do a pull-up, but I can hang there without my arms ripping out of my sockets, so that's progress.
I get myself through the door. I take it fifteen seconds at a time. I dream of dancing again.
Juliane Bergmann is a technical writer for Montana State University, the Department of Defense, and the Department of Veterans Affairs. As a book coach, ghostwriter, and editor, she’s guided nine first-time authors through the ideation and creation of their non-fiction books spanning memoir, entrepreneurship, business development, psychedelics, healthcare, IT, immigration, coaching, and leadership.
Juliane’s work has appeared in: Mamalode, The Writing Cooperative, CRY Magazine, A Parent Is Born, The Bozeman Daily Chronicle, and The Scarlett Letter. She was named a semi-finalist in the 2021 Medium Writing Challenge for her essay How To Become A More Selfish Parent.
Juliane offers free writing resources at https://julianebergmann.ghost.io/
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