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It’s Not Whether You Win or Lose
You know that pithy statement, It’s not whether you win or lose, it’s how you play the game?
Man, that feels actually so true in my life right now.
It started with returning to my outdoor climbing project, Sonic Youth (5.13a). My badass climbing partner, Casey, had shown it to me in the fall. She subsequently sent it after 4 sessions like the crusher she is. I questioned if it would go back to it; I only had two sessions on it, and it seemed decently out of reach. But my buddy Brit was interested in checking it out last month, so I said, “Why the heck not?”
When I got back to it in March, I climbed it better than I ever had before. I dialed in the crux beta, falling on it probably a dozen times until I successfully locked it in. I wasn’t frustrated — I was ecstatic. Suddenly, this route was plausible.
I ended up going back two weeks later. The conditions weren’t ideal — I had traveled the day before and didn’t get to sleep until 1:30 am. But the first attempt I made, I nearly sent it! I made it through the crux, and was so surprised, I pumped myself out, hesitating. I whipped a couple more times on it after that, but I felt so joyful. Even though I’d technically “failed”, I felt the strongest I ever had. I felt so accomplished that I had turned something that once seemed practically impossible to just out of reach.
I found myself thinking about this paradox last night at game two of the first round of the NBA playoffs, Nuggets v. Clippers. My two coworkers, Chelsea and Jeremiah, had proposed we see a playoff game before the tickets got too expensive. I was in — we even splurged on more pricey tickets to be closer to the court.
What a phenomenal choice that was. I had the time of my life! Watching the Nuggets battle it out against the Clippers, the point difference never exceeding 8 points, was the most thrilling basketball experience I have ever had — maybe even more than the Nuggets winning the finals back in 2023.
I was reflecting on this feeling as we departed Ball Arena, the Nuggets losing by just once basket but playing a very solid, tactical game. We lost, but it didn’t really feel like we lost. In a larger sense, I’ve been experiencing this win-lose phenomenon for months: chipping away tirelessly and then experiencing a roadblock. Rinse and repeat.
I’m trying to start my own business. But it’s more than trying; I want to relentlessly pursue it until it either succeeds or fails. So attached to this dream I have become, practically no setback can deter me. Every “no” or closed door just galvanizes me to try harder, to work smarter, to rethink things. To play the game better.
In all cases, it’s not about the outcome. Mastering every move of Sonic Youth was so thrilling; every dunk by Aaron Gordon brought the biggest smile and loudest screams; every successful business email and call lights a fire inside of me. Who cares that I didn’t send the route, that the Nuggets lost the game, that the business isn’t moving as fast as I thought it would? I am winning the experience.
I find myself more equanimous (I had to look up the adjective of equanimity) by the day. When I get harried by a bunch of customers coming into the restaurant, I take a breath and tell myself I’m just hungry and there’s nothing wrong. When I am climbing the stairs to the casual shoe warehouse for the umpteenth time to find another size of Blundstones for someone, I tell myself, at least I’m getting my steps. The other day, I got cut off by a car while I was leaving work, and after a flash of anger, my brain flipped the switch. Maybe that person is experiencing an emergency and needs to rush.
I say all of this with a grain of salt, though. While I’ve developed more composure in certain situations, I am an emotional being to my core. Lately, it’s my empathy that’s gotten the better of me — tears forming for both loved ones and strangers after learning of their pain, as if it were about me or if I were the one hurt. It is this contradiction that makes me want to lean into the idea of “playing the game” better from an emotional standpoint; to be the one who enjoys the process (the ups and downs of life) and feels accepting of the outcome (happiness, love, heartbreak, frustration, and all the other things life throws).
The other day, I went climbing at the gym with my coworker, Xander. We got on ropes, which neither of us had done for a while. I hopped on this new 5.12 that Casey had told me about — she called it “spicy.” “Spicy” is often a euphemism for “sketchy” in climbing. The first half of the route was reasonable, but then it really turned up. I was surprising myself as I made several improbable right hand bumps on crimps, and on the the penultimate hold, a giant sloper, my foot cut unexpectedly. I rested and finished the route easily. Xander lowered me.
“Are you okay?” He asked, somewhat concerned and crestfallen. He couldn’t believe I had come off the wall.
“Totally!” I replied with a laugh.
“But … but … it didn’t seem like you were going to fall!” He persisted. “What happened?!”
“Ha, I’m not sure! I think that hold I pressed my feet on was a little slick and vertical, so my feet came off? It’s all good!”
It really didn’t matter to me — what mattered was how I played the game.
Do your best. Have fun.
I’ve been living so much in anticipation of events, that I’ve hardly taken any time to consider the events themselves. It really hit me this last Saturday.
All summer, I’ve been training for an event hosted by my climbing gym, CityROCK: Battle Royale. It’s a sport climbing competition that they last hosted in 2019 and in fact was won by Paris 2024 Olympic athletes Natalia Grossman and Colin Duffy. After 5 years, CityROCK had decided to bring it back. It differs from the gym’s typical “Downtown Local” comps in that there’s a cash prize ($500 for first place) and the tie breaker boils down to “the battle route.” Essentially, the battle route is such a challenging route that your goal is just to make it as far as up it possible, not necessarily finish it. If you are the male or female who makes it the furthest, you are automatically put into the finals round. Otherwise, the judges are looking at your top 3 hardest finishes. There are 20 routes, #1 being the easiest/fewest points and #20 being the hardest/most points. You get extra points if you “flash” the route (i.e. finish it on your first try) and additional points if you lead the route, rather than top rope. You get 4 hours to get your 3 routes and the top 8 climbers in each category advance.
In 2019, I was far too intimidated to compete in Battle (and knowing Natalia won, I’m honestly glad I didn’t throw my hat in the ring). But my climbing has progressed so much in the last year, it felt silly not to give it a shot this time around. I climbed hard all summer long — getting on harder routes outside than I had ever attempted, pushing myself on the toughest routes at the gym, and climbing through fatigue and fear. I had being working so hard, in fact, that I hadn’t even really imagined what Battle would actually be like.
In the months leading up, my main concern was that a ton of really strong women from Boulder or Denver would show up and blow me out of the water. While I may be one of the strongest women at CityROCK, CityROCK is just one gym in one town in Colorado. My goal with Battle was not to win; it was to hold my own. I really wanted to make it to finals, at least, and make a decent showing.
When I arrived for the comp on Saturday, after months of worrying about a bunch of adult women showing me up, I was in for a bigger surprise. A lot of incredibly strong kids had come to give Battle a try. When I say “kids,” I mean high schoolers. But not just any high schoolers — high schoolers donning matching North Face USA Climbing hoodies, clearly comp kids who do these contests all the time. They looked not only strong, but serious. All business.
My fellow CityROCKers and I were definitely put through the wringer in qualifiers. For my part, my top 3 routes at Downtown Local comps are usually in the 15-20 range — e.g. I send #15, #17, and #18. This comp was way stiffer. I warmed up on #13, which probably was 5.11+/5.12-. I struggled on #14 and #15. I mercifully sent #16 but had to downgrade to #12 to just get 3 routes. And #12 was no gimme either! My attempt at the Battle route, which one of the setters speculates was 5.13c, was brutal. I wasn’t down about it, though. I was genuinely proud of myself of persevering through these tough routes, and I couldn’t help but laugh with the other CityROCK adults as these kids showed us up.
I was afraid that having #12, #13, and #16 wasn’t going to be enough to get me to finals. But it was more than enough — I got 4th in qualifiers! I’ll take that to the bank for sure, considering I had probably a decade on the ladies who got the top 3 spots. But now came the part I hadn’t thought about: finals would be in front of a large crowd of folks who had paid to spectate. Could I climb well under that sort of pressure? I didn’t know.
Gratefully, there were 3 other CityROCK members who made it to finals: Julie, Wiley, and Jono. Two men and two women from the host gym made it — it felt like we were the home team! The pressure felt a little more manageable knowing that the crowd knew us the best and would cheer for us the loudest. However, that couldn’t ease all of our nerves. As finalists, we were all put in “iso” (isolation) as the crowd filed in. We couldn’t see the routes at all, sequestered in the upstairs training area. As these high schoolers monkeyed around in iso, somehow still full of energy, the rest of us weathered adults tried to stretch and stay warm without exhausting ourselves further.
After we got 2 minutes to view each of the two finals routes, we were lined up. We all had a specific time to be called down to the climbing area, followed by a waiting period before climbing, then climbing itself. Each competitor got 6 minutes per route with a 7-minute break in between. However, before climbing each route, we had to sit in front of the wall, our backs to it, while our fellow competitors were attempting it and the crowd was cheering. To say it was stressful would be an understatement.
Mercifully, based on our qualifying rankings, Wiley and I would go down to the wall at the same time and climb at the same time. In addition, Jono would be climbing his second finals route while we climbed our first. This boosted our morale enormously.
When we got down to the gym floor, the crowd screaming and cheering, I felt overwhelmed with pride and emotion. I’ve never experienced a competition like this before. When I finally got on the wall, for the first time all day, all the jitters went away. I felt strong, controlled, and supported. I had so much fun. Though I didn’t finish either of the finals routes, I am totally satisfied with my effort. And I’ll never forget that halfway up the second route, though he was also climbing, Wiley yelled over to me, “Great job, Sarah!” He got third place — the only non-comp kid to podium.
I don’t know if visualizing finals beforehand would have helped me. The whole experience taught me so much about myself, though — how much I’ve grown as a climber and how much further I have to go. How I deal with stress and pressure and fatigue. How I maintain a positive attitude in light of setbacks. How I perform in front of an audience. What I’m most proud of, though, is how I showed up for myself and my gym. To fall off that second finals route, untie, and run into a big bear hug with Wiley and Jono made me feel such joy that the outcome was practically meaningless.
Before the day even started, I just kept repeating the mantra: Do your best. Have fun. I think I succeeded.
What happened to play?
I don’t think I was a dreamer as a kid. It’s not that I had no aspirations, but rather saw infinite possibility. I didn’t latch onto one particular dream or accomplishment because there were too many to choose from. Instead, I just worked really hard at what I did. I worked hard at school, on the field hockey field, and in the climbing gym. Whatever I did, I just tried to do it well.
When I was very little, I had an obsession with Annie, the musical. I do recall wanting to be her, on stage, for a brief time. Once that impossible dream subsided, like a lot of kids, I thought I wanted to be a veterinarian “when I grew up.” Accompanying my dad to put down our golden retriever, Dixie, at age 12 quickly dispelled that idea too. I don’t remember having any career ideas in my teens, and I certainly wasn’t ready to declare a major when I applied to colleges. The reason I majored in psychology wasn’t because I wanted to be a psychologist, either; I just loved the classes and never felt like the work was real work. It was just fun. I wanted to spend my four years enjoying my education, not loathing it.
I recently realized the lack of dreaming in my youth when I went climbing in Rifle for the first time. Rifle is certainly one of the most renowned climbing areas in the United States, but possibly the world. As a child, I would leaf through the climbing magazines in the rock gym, seeing photos of Rifle and similar crags, waiting for a parent to pick me up. I would think wow, but I never thought, Wow, I want to go there. I want to climb there someday. It didn’t even occur to me that somehow, that could be a version of my life. But now I’ve lived in Colorado for 9 years and have not just climbed in Rifle, but a number of world-renowned climbing destinations.
Making it to Rifle wasn’t just fulfilling a would-be childhood dream. Making it to Rifle was a testament to the climbing expertise that I have so relentlessly pursued for the past 18 years. Rifle has practically no moderate-level climbs — the ones that do exist, as the guidebook says, are polished and uninspiring. To have a good time at Rifle, you have to be climbing at an expert level. Or be really good at accepting failure. Because even as an expert, you will fail at Rifle. Again and again and again.
For a while now, I’ve been stewing on this idea of expertise in adulthood. To me, the greatest joy of growing up has been finding passions and tenaciously seeking more information, more knowledgeability, and more experience around them.
While climbing has been part of my life since I was just 9 years old, many of my current passions have only developed over the last 8 years or so. Take running, for example. I barely had run more than a 5K before college. Then two years ago, I qualified for the Boston Marathon — I ran the Austin Marathon at a pace of 7:26 minutes per mile. That’s mind-boggling to me, still. Was that even me?
The joy of qualifying, however, wasn’t just crossing the finish line at a wicked-fast time (for me). It was all of the work I had put into it. I had chipped away at running races, learning how to train, fuel, and recover for several half marathons and two marathons prior to Austin. The desire to improve and optimize my running was insatiable, and still is. Now training for my second ultra marathon, I am so wholly fulfilled knowing how much more I have to learn. I am learning more about endurance running practically every day. And learning more about climbing every day. And learning more about myself every day.
I have lamented to several people that when I took AP Psychology in high school, I was taught that adulthood (as defined in developmental psych) is basically broken into two categories: work and love. It’s about what you do to make a living and who you spend your time with. But what happened to play? Play is so important in childhood, but it falls to the wayside as we age. But in my current state of being, play is all I have. I am unemployed and single. Does that make me less of an adult? (Maybe a little.) But there’s so much value in play for me because I am growing and developing passions that I never dreamt I would be skillful at. Passions that have taken me so many new places and taught me what I’m made of. Without play, I don’t know who I would be, what I would do.
My uncle Carey is nearly 72 years old, and he is an expert wind surfer. The best part? He started in his 50s. After years of traveling to Hood River, the US wind surfing mecca, he and my late aunt Debbie moved to Mosier, just 5 miles east, with a population of less than 500. He wind surfs every day that it’s warm enough and the wind is blowing hard enough; he skis Mt. Hood when it’s too cold to wind surf. I remember seeing a Facebook post of his last year of him in his full wet suit, smiling ear to ear, standing on the shore with his board.
He wrote: “Pretty late in the season to be windsurfing for me, but no snow so whatcha gonna do? Glad I went! NE wind 30-35, air and water temps both ~47 degrees. Toasty in the drysuit except for the hands.”
I showed several friends and family the post, because all I could think was: this is someone in the family who gets it. That the love for play can dispel everything else. Who cares if the conditions are poor? I want to push myself.
When I asked uncle Carey last year about how he got into wind surfing and what it means to him, he said, “This is the greatest part of my life. The fact that I’m out there with people decades younger than I am, holding my own … it’s incredible.”
Maybe I didn’t dare to dream a lot when I was a kid. But as an adult, the only thing I dream about is how I can keep playing for the rest of my life.
So We Sailed on to the Sun
“A project is a route or boulder problem that’s at the cusp of your climbing limit. Professional climbers will have projects that they work on for years. They’ll have a route in say, France, that they’ll return to every year to try and send,” I explained to my brother on the phone on Friday. “So this route, The Sub, it’s our project. It’s a 5.12d. I don’t know how much you know about climbing ratings, but supposedly, if you can climb anything that’s 5.12, you’re in the top 10% of climbers. But if you can climb 5.13, you’re in the top 1% of climbers. I am trying to send 5.13a. But first, this 5.12d.”
I didn’t expect to become so fixated on a rock for 5 days straight, but it happened. On Wednesday, I had gone out climbing with my friends, Zach and Britt, in Castlewood Canyon. The state park is only a 45-minute drive, so it’s a nice local getaway. The rock is all conglomerate, meaning that within the face of the crag, there are lots of strange rocks jutting right out of the wall to use as hands and feet. It’s fun, funky, and exasperating all at the same time.
We spent most of the morning familiarizing ourselves with the rock type and the area. Zach put up a 5.10d with a burly start, called Nose Job, followed by a more straightforward, slabby 5.11a, Cobble Wobble. Now warmed up, Britt was jazzed on a 5.11c called The Beak. Immediately, it became apparent that The Beak was sketchy every way around — dangerous clips and potential falls, a spooky arete, and a seemingly impossible finish. Zach and I passed at even attempting it. Britt mercifully was able to complete it with a bit of cursing and lots of confusion.
Now what to do? Originally, Britt was interested in checking out a 5.13b called The Black Streak. He didn’t feel wedded to it, though, given the rising heat at the crag. That’s when I offered to check out The Sub. Queue a mini obsession.
I was the first to try The Sub, which meant I had the slightly-more-difficult task of hanging all of the quickdraws on the bolts, then clipping. I steadily made my way up the first few bolts on juggy holds but through pumpy moves. Then came a series of pockets to traverse, followed by a small fissure to pull down on with your left hand and a 3-finger pocket (stellar) for your right hand. At this point, you have to somewhat dynamically move out left, hips in, to a small knob that’s okay at best. It was this move that I fell the first time.
Pleased with my first go, I figured out the move, only to discover the real crux of the route: a dyno to a big, sloping rock sticking out of the wall. Classic conglomerate. Miraculously, I stuck this dyno on the first try, cutting feet (i.e. both feet came off the wall). It’s one of those moves that looks freaking sick, no matter who does it.
The ending of the route is doable, but exhausting. You grab an amazing in-cut crimp, basically do a split/drop-knee to clip, punch through a couple of weird-textured pockets, grab a small pinch-thing, and do a big right gaston before the finish. It is so cool. My imagination had been captured.
Zach gave the route a go with a few takes, followed by Britt, who fell just once. Hell, he could maybe send this thing today! Maybe I could, too.
I went back up but promptly blew the dyno. It still felt much easier than the first time, knowing the moves and having the draws hung. Britt went back up too, only to ALSO blow the dyno. Zach had to get back to the Springs to work, so Britt and I threw in the towel. But not before resolving to come back the following day.
Not even 24 hours later, Britt and I were back at The Sub and determined. We both went back up it to feel out all the moves again. I had written scrupulous notes about the route the day before and was accumulating more with both of our efforts. Still, the odds were not in our favor. The crag felt hotter and buggier than the previous day. Both of us had climbed multiple days in a row, our muscles fatigued. And the skin on our fingertips was withering. We both gave three valiant efforts, but neither of us could stick that dang dyno in sequence. We weren’t down, though — quite the opposite. We now had all the micro-beta to send this thing. We just needed better conditions.
Now it was Sunday. We would leave earlier this time to beat the heat. As I stepped out my door, I discovered it was raining. It’s not raining at Castlewood, I told myself. We’re going to send.
On my drive to Britt’s, a double rainbow crossed the sky. I decided it must be a sign from the climbing gods that today was our day. Anything that could be a sign, I took to be one.
We made our way to Castlewood Canyon for the 3rd time this week, which sounds like lunacy to me, but didn’t feel like lunacy. The sky cleared. The sun was out. When we arrived, the temperature was a perfect 60 degrees. Now we were anxious.
Back at the crag, we tried our best to warm up and get mentally locked in. Britt went up the route to hang the draws and remind himself of some moves. I then got on for send attempt #1.
The beginning, fine. The middle traverse, smooth-ish, though could’ve been executed better. When I got to the dyno, I told myself, go get it. And I did! The only problem was, I’d never gotten this far from the beginning — and was completely bewildered. I completely forgot what to do next, and after some flailing, fell. I wasn’t mad. I was already satisfied, just to have made this progress.
Britt got on again, and he too got mixed up. He nearly forgot about the three-finger pocket and actually laughed at himself on the wall. He flubbed the dyno in uncharacteristic fashion.
Take two for me: a similar start, a very wobbly push through the traverse, a dyno stick. I now knew what to do, but I had to stay calm and not lose energy. I couldn’t believe I was hanging onto the weird-textured pockets or the mini pinch, but I hit the gaston too low. I couldn’t recover and fell.
Britt’s try #3: flawless execution all the way to the dyno. He stuck the dyno for a half-second this time. But still, no.
We wanted this thing so badly and yet acknowledged how absurd it all was. We had no intentions of even trying this route on Wednesday, yet here we were, obsessed with all the minutiae of this face, so desperate to send it with no falls. We could both probably tell you every single foot and hand hold on this thing at this point, could visualize every movement. If not today, we would send this thing, dammit.
My third try. I had started to resent the tiring beginning moves, just wanting to cut to the chase. The traverse went the smoothest it ever has; I could feel this was it. Once I got the dyno, I forced my feet back on and grabbed the in-cut. I was trying to lock in the drop knee and my foot came off, but I recovered and willed myself onward. The last holds didn’t feel great, and I felt the pressure to nail the gaston this time. When my hand fell perfectly into place, I knew it was over. I had just climbed the hardest route of my life outdoors.
Britt sent it immediately after. When folks send something back to back like that, it’s called a send train (choo choo!). The limiting factor for him was always the dyno, whereas for me, it was those exhausting following moves. Needless to say, we were thrilled.
I’ve never had a project before. Ever. That may not seem significant, but for a climber of 18 years, it’s kind of odd. I’ve always just liked climbing outside. I prioritize trying lots of different routes, rather than sending every route cleanly. In the last year, motivated by strong friends like Britt, Zach, Eric, Maddie, Casey, and Ryan, I’ve been curious to see what I was really capable of. I determined that I’d try to send a 5.13a by the end of the year. But I still hadn’t sent a 5.12c or 5.12d — I had barely even tried either grade. Moreover, I hadn’t found a route that compelled me to keep coming back. I was searching for something that was just a touch out of reach but plausible. Something with variable style and technique, but also required you to be strong. Something like The Sub.
The Sub is named for a boulder at the crag face. When you look down from the top of the route, the boulder looks like the Beatles’ Yellow Submarine. Though I never saw this boulder from the top (I think I was too full of adrenaline), from the start, this felt like my route, in a way. The Yellow Submarine is tattooed to my foot. It holds a lot of symbolism for me. From the moment I tried The Sub, I vowed I’d come back until I sent it.
There is something to be said for obsessing over a route, or really anything as trivial, for that matter. Sure, a 5.12d at a state park crag doesn’t really mean anything — unless you make it so. What was so exciting to me about The Sub is that it wasn’t this detrimental, negative, toxic type of fixation. Instead, it was this truly compelling and thrilling fixation that reinvigorated my love to climb. I wasn’t beat up about not sending it all the previous tries. It just made me want to work harder — to be the best climber I could be.
Britt admitted that he’s got a bit of an obsessive personality, but he prefers to be that way. Because when it comes down to it, wouldn’t you rather care deeply about something — even something as silly as a route — than not care at all? I couldn’t agree more.