CHAPTER THREE

Can’t Is a 4-Letter Word


Trust in the LORD with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight.

—Proverbs 3:5–6

I thought a lot about my future from my perch in my backyard apple tree. I’ve always been an old soul who likes quiet contemplation. I remember sitting up in that tree, listening to the sounds of the crickets chirping and birds singing and leaves rustling. I could feel the wind in my face and smell the scent of fresh-cut grass wafting in the air as the sun gently warmed my skin. Being so tiny, I also loved being up high, looking down on the world from a totally different vantage point. It was a place where I could breathe, where I could take in God’s miracles without being distracted. I spent hours and hours in those branches, sometimes so relaxed and happy I’d fall asleep. As I grew older, it became my pondering place, a spot where I could read, write, and reconnect with my feelings. A place where I somehow felt closer to God, physically because I was high up and spiritually because my soul was so at peace there.

Clearly, I get my way of thinking—and my appreciation of the simple things in life—from my parents. They are blue-collar, easy-going, plain-living, salt-of-the-earth people who don’t know how to take no for an answer.

My mom was one of eight children, the second to the youngest with four older brothers. She learned from a very young age how to wear many hats. She led a cooking, cleaning, sewing, grow-your-own-food, catch-chickens-for-your-meat-and-eggs type of childhood. She was taught to always work and provide for herself and her loved ones—laziness was not an option. One of her first jobs was working the line at the Heath factory, which is now the Hershey factory, in Robinson, Illinois. Her mom was a homemaker, and her dad worked at the local pottery factory. It was a true small-town Midwestern upbringing in the ’50s—the stuff Norman Rockwell portraits are made of.

My mother had recently broken off an engagement to be married and was essentially over the idea of dating when she met my father. He was twenty-seven at the time, somewhat rough around the edges, and a looker. Like my mom, he came from a large family—he was the baby of eleven kids! He moved around constantly as a child, from one place to the next, because his dad liked to experience different places, and his mom followed suit. They landed in St. Marie, Illinois, where my dad went to high school and his dad owned a bar. My dad started working when he was just nine or ten years old and fully supported his family at seventeen. He was a “pumper,” one of the men who checked the wells for Marathon Oil.

Both my parents wore a lot of hand-me-downs and did hard labor, but they learned the value of a strong work ethic and a deep love and appreciation for family. No matter what, family came first. This philosophy became the backbone of my childhood. Anything worth having is worth working hard for. Nothing can stand in your way if you have people who love you on your side. My parents always told me to be my authentic self, never to try to impress anyone or put on airs—just be who I am because that was the way God made me. My dad is rock solid and consistent. He doesn’t care if you’re the pope or the president, he isn’t going to put on an act or be anything other than himself in his button-up flannel shirt and jeans. He’d give you that shirt off his back if you asked him, and I’ve never seen him pass someone stranded on the side of the road without stopping to help. Growing up with kind people like my parents for role models, I naturally developed a giving heart and an expectation that people should help one another.

As I grew up, I kept asking my parents, “What do you want me to do or be?” The only answer I ever got was “We want you to be happy.” Come on, guys, give me a clue! Many of my friends’ parents had strict plans and rules for them. Mine let me be me and make my own choices and mistakes. They gave me the power to have my own mind and my own dreams. They raised me to be strong and to stand behind my convictions. They had absolutely 100 percent faith in me, and that helped me feel the same way about myself. They let me be who God made me to be, not who they wanted me to be or thought I should be. They didn’t believe in doing things because others did and never were impressed by money or titles or status. They were impressed by work ethic, character, empathy, honesty, and how you treat others. They never missed a sporting event, a school recital, or a church program I was in. Ever. Those things mattered to both of them. Family mattered. My brothers are the same way. They are very involved dads, braiding their girls’ hair and painting their nails. Cooking. My parents did a great job raising all of us!

For the longest time, I wanted to be a veterinarian. I loved animals, especially dogs, and was set on pursuing this career until I realized part of the job was putting animals down when they were old or sick. I didn’t have the heart. I could never kill a living creature. Then I thought I wanted to be a lawyer. My parents always told me I was good at arguing, so I figured I’d be a natural. I’d seen the movie Legally Blonde and could envision myself before a jury being “legally brunette” and rocking a pink suit. Then I heard how many years law school is . . . pass! Patience has never been my strongest virtue.

My next career goal was fashion—either a personal shopper or a buyer or an editor for a cool Christian fashion magazine that inspires and uplifts women instead of objectifying them. I was going to go to a community college after high school, then fashion school. But God had other plans for me. For the record, I might revisit this goal one day down the road, because I believe someone should create a magazine without Photoshop and airbrushing that shows real women in a realistic light. I also thought I might be a shoe designer—how hilarious is that? I was obsessed with shoes and thought I’d be able to create some serious shoe art with wild and unique designs. My mom always jokes that she never could have afforded me if I could have worn shoes—the Brickers would be bankrupt. I am, however, a shoe enabler. Anyone who goes shopping with me is not leaving the mall without buying at least a few pairs.

Living without Limits

Sometimes the only thing that could get me to come down from my perch in my tree was to tell me the Olympics were on TV. One day I was completely absorbed in the gymnastics competition when I turned to my parents and announced, “I’m going to be an Olympic gymnast when I grow up.” There was a brief pause, then they nodded. “Wow, okay,” they said. To them it was okay. They would never dissuade me even if the idea seemed far-fetched. I used to think they were pretty crazy, but now I realize they were always ten steps ahead of any wild plan I could dream up. They always saw the potential in me. They always believed I would live an extraordinary life that defied all odds. They taught me how to look past my circumstances. They taught me to be brave, for which I will be forever grateful. A life without fear is a life without limits.

I was six years old the first time I saw Dominique Moceanu on TV. It felt like a lightbulb went off in my head: Aha! I want to be like her. She was tiny; I was tiny. She was fiery; I was fiery. She was born to Romanian parents; I knew I was born to Romanian parents. We even looked alike, with the same tan skin, huge dark eyes, and thick jet-black hair. I was drawn to her but couldn’t say why. I remember a poster in my gym of the Magnificent Seven, Dominique’s 1996 US Olympic gymnastics team, and one of her on the beam. I told myself, “One day, that will be me.”

I’m not sure what it was about tumbling that appealed to me, but I do know I was always attracted to activities that required strength, technique, and focus. I also loved the speed and sensation of flying across a room. I felt like I had been shot out of a cannon. From the time I was in second grade, the gym at Beth Allen Power Tumbling was my second home. At that time, the gym was in Newton, which was about twenty minutes away from my house. I didn’t complain though, because there was a Hardee’s on the way, and I got to eat hot ham-and-cheese sandwiches (they used the white cheese instead of the yucky orange cheese, which made me so happy) on the way home. I might have loved those sandwiches as much as I loved learning how to power tumble. I wasn’t in that building long before Beth moved her business to a gym that was conveniently located by my school. But no more ham-and-cheese sandwiches!

When my mom first called Beth, she explained my fascination with gymnastics and asked her if she’d take me on as a student.

“Sure, we can try,” Beth said. “But honestly, I’ve never helped anyone like that. Let’s see what she can do.”

I wanted to do it all. My very first day, I did a forward roll. I had such drive and passion for tumbling, there was no stopping me. The gym had a Tumbl Trak, one beam, some floor mats, and a long rod spring floor that we competed on. Between the track and the rod floor were rainbow-colored mats where we would practice handstands, cartwheels, and round offs. We used to have handstand contests to see who could hold a handstand the longest. Big surprise, I always won! I could stand on my hands for hours if I had to. When it came to tumbling, I didn’t need as much of a running start as other kids—why waste time when I could just get down to it?

“I want to do a back handspring,” I told my coaches one day. I could tell Beth was a little unsure. It was not an easy move, even for a kid with legs. But I was determined and wouldn’t even let them spot me. I never let anyone spot me for the longest time, and I’m not sure why. I just wanted to take on the challenge all by myself, to prove to myself I could do it without anyone’s help. Looking back, it was crazy—I could have killed myself! But I was strong-willed and stubborn. I hated feeling needy.

I remember I also didn’t like my mom watching, so I would ask her to leave, especially when I was working on something new. I was pretty hard on myself. If I didn’t perfect something immediately, I would pitch a fit. My coaches, Beth and Karen, always had to remind me that I was human.

“Practice makes perfect,” they’d tell me. But I wanted to be perfect right out of the gate. If they said I did something well, I didn’t accept that either. I had to feel it was good, and not just good for me, but good for any able-bodied gymnast.

My biggest challenge was getting the height other gymnasts with legs could achieve. As my skills grew, height became exceedingly important for mastering the more complicated moves. I couldn’t get the height on the rod floor to do a full rotation of a full twist, and it was holding me back from going up in levels. But I never allowed anyone to give me special treatment—ever. I just stayed at the level I was at because I didn’t want to advance by having people make exceptions for me.

Most of my fellow athletes accepted and respected me. I had only one incident in the four years I competed. One of the girls I competed with called a meeting with her mom and the coach. She didn’t think it was fair that I was placing higher than her—how could that be possible when she had legs and I didn’t? Legs or no legs, I was just better than she was. But she and her mom didn’t want to hear it. Also, audience members occasionally stared at me when they saw me on the sidelines, but for the most part, everyone was extremely positive and encouraging. When people did stare, I didn’t notice them too much. I was too focused on the competition.

I had a pretty tough shell back then, and like a turtle, it protected me. But I eventually realized you can be so tough that you block out everything and everyone. If you accept only perfection, then that becomes the sole thing of value in your life—and there’s so much more than winning. Letting my guard down and accepting that I’m flawed are things I’ve had to work at. God meant us to fail. It’s His way of helping us accomplish something far more important and lasting than a momentary victory. It took me years to learn how to focus on what’s been given instead of what’s gone. But now I realize that the victory is in the journey—even if I stumble along the way. Thankfully, I had parents who understood that. Who let me try and fail and try again. When my belief in myself wasn’t strong, theirs was stronger.



I hope that one day when I have my own kids, I can demonstrate a similar strength for them. All parents have a hard time seeing their child unhappy, frustrated, or down on themselves. My parents had trust in both God and me. They resisted the urge to jump in and rescue me. Instead, they let me figure things out for myself. They let me find my own courage and wisdom. They let me fall on my butt. All were equally important. No one wants to lose. No one wants to be in last place. No one wants to fall. But God is our safety net. And in His eyes, we fail only when we allow failure to defeat us, when we refuse to trust that failure can be a gift—a chance to be better, stronger, and smarter the next time around. God uses everything in our lives to transform us into the people He wants us to be. Maybe that’s why I never let anyone spot me—I knew He had my back.

BELIEVE IT!

You May Be Your Own Worst Enemy

I was always incredibly self-critical. My parents would plead with me, “Jennifer, don’t be a sore loser. Be a good sport!” when I didn’t come in first place at a competition. I wish I knew then what I know now: self-critical thinking is truly self-sabotage. I get it—succeeding and winning feel good. Losing or failing . . . not so much. But cut yourself some slack. Have compassion for yourself. Try to offer yourself a little love, understanding, and acceptance. Everyone has their bad days. It doesn’t mean you’re a loser or your situation is hopeless. Manage your expectations. Are you being fair to yourself? It’s great to have huge dreams and goals, but are they attainable at this point in time? Do you have a lot of work to do before you get there—or are you trying to skip a few steps? And finally, savor the small victories. Are you appreciating the little things you’ve accomplished en route to the bigger goal? The first competition I won might not have been the Junior Olympics, but it was preparing me for when that day arrived. When was the last time you truly stopped and appreciated how far you’ve come instead of bemoaning how much farther you have to go?