I’m headed to Ohio this weekend for a Celebration of Life ceremony for my friend Jess Fox- she and I started learning the craft of coaching together at CrossFit South Brooklyn back in 2010 and were part of a uniquely close and special group of colleagues and friends. In the last few years, as Jess got sicker and eventually died, I’ve thought a lot about what fitness means in the face of death- I’m sure she did too.
Jess was a great natural athlete. You could tell that immediately, from the way she threw a ball, the way she moved her feet, how she picked up new movements. She had that connectivity of perception, thought, and action that great athletes possess- the ability to will something to happen and have her body respond without hesitation.
She was incredibly fit too, and fitness and athleticism are not the same. (My buddy DH3 and I got into more than one argument about the appropriateness of a softball throw in the CrossFit Games- arguments that often caused Jess to get up and leave the table.) Whereas athleticism is some sort of quasi-divine touch that properly aligns your mind and body towards action, fitness is often a testament to willpower, organization, habits, and lifestyle. Jess had a monster deadlift, 350 pounds or so, but she wasn’t born with it- she deadlifted 100 pounds, and 105, and 110, and all the way up and up and up. Jess married perseverance and discipline with her natural gifts.
And then, a few years ago, Jess came back from a trip and wasn’t feeling well, and found out she had Stage IV cancer. She lived with it, bravely, and gracefully, and honestly. Eventually, this spring, she died from it.
Jess was careful not to talk about “her fight” with cancer, and quick to warn others not to use “battle language.” It wasn’t a fight to her, not something to rail against, to resist, to dominate. Jess lived with her cancer, she sought to understand it, to use it to bring greater meaning and context to her life- even as it cruelly shortened its arc. Fitness is similar- it’s often portrayed as a battle or fight, but the people who endure realize it’s about curiosity, patience, and care. Jess knew this.
Why do us fitnessers fitness? What does it teach us, what is its value, knowing that at any moment it could be us getting the hard news that Jess got. It is tempting and often easy to be dragged away by the undertow of meaninglessness. If the strongest of us, the fittest of us, the most giving of heart and spirit can be so cruelly culled, why do we do these (hard) things?
In my experience as a coach and a human, injuries and setbacks can be simultaneously personally challenging/frustrating and professionally interesting/educational. They are first hand lived experiences that I can bring to my clients and community. Jess modeled this mindset through her life with cancer- she sought to understand, to connect. She used the darkness of her illness as contrast, a way to draw her life and the lives she touched into a more vivid relief of meaning, of laughter, of love.
Fitness can serve a similar purpose- it isn’t just a vehicle for us to play a sport, to fit into a suit or dress, to prolong the inevitable. It is a way for us to connect more deeply with ourselves, or bodies, and our environment. It’s a reliable practice of feeling uncomfortable and challenged, to better prepare us for the less reliable but often grave challenges that we will all face.
Jess was great at doing that, just like she was great at most of the things she did. She spent considerable time building a relationship with what her body could do, connecting to and teaching others to do the same, and even as that relationship changed, she continued to live boldly with a sense of purpose and connectedness to her physical body.
Towards the end of her life Jess worked on a farm, cultivating and connecting to the earth, undoubtedly with the same passion and humor she brought to everything. This feels to me like her last knowing and soulful transition- Jess had spent years connecting inward, to her fitness and her physicality, and always reflected that inner connection outward, to the people she coached and sweated with, to the community she was a part of. In death she slipped the bounds that confine mortal connection.
I think of Jess now, infinitely connected like a latticework, points of light touching all of the people she loved and taught and the earth she nurtured, a million twinkling lights touching us all and reaching further still. In fitness, in life, we seek to understand ourselves to better understand the people and places we love. It’s worth doing.
