I Never Left the Gym, Even When I Couldn’t Compete

Right now, I’m sitting in between classes at the Osborne Legacy Complex, just kind of taking in the quiet before the day picks up again. That’s been my life lately: class, practice, recovery, repeat. Midseason doesn’t really slow down. If anything, it speeds up. You’re balancing everything at once, trying to be sharp in the classroom and even sharper in the gym.

But this year, being in the lineup and actually competing means something different.

A few months ago, that wasn’t guaranteed. I went from feeling like everything was lining up to having it all pulled out from under me. First it was my foot at U.S. qualifiers. Then, right when I thought I was coming back, I slipped off the high bar and wrecked my knee. I’m talking everything—bone, ligament, muscle. I was non-weight bearing for 12 weeks, and that started on the first day of classes.

So yeah, when I say just being here matters, I mean it.

Because there was a real moment where I didn’t know if this season was going to happen at all.

When Everything Stopped

I remember laying there after the fall, just trying to process what had happened. I’d never really been an injured guy before. I was always the one who could take a hard fall, shake it off, and go again. This was different. This was something I couldn’t just get up from.

Later that night, I was in my room with ice and machines hooked up, and I just started laughing. Not because it was funny, but because it felt so unreal. Like, this can’t actually be happening.

That’s the part people don’t always see. When something like that happens, your mind goes straight to everything you’re losing. You forget the good. You forget the work you’ve put in. You start thinking about the guys coming in, the role you wanted to play, the expectations you had for yourself.

I’m a perfectionist. Gymnastics kind of wires you that way. When something goes wrong, you don’t just feel it, you analyze it, over and over.

But I made a decision pretty quickly: I wasn’t going to disappear.

Even if I couldn’t do gymnastics, I could still be there. I could still show up for lifts, for practice, for my teammates. Preseason is hard, and I wasn’t about to let those guys go through it without me. I wanted to be a presence, even if I couldn’t compete.

Finding a Way Back

Rehab became my routine. Five days a week, every week. It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t fast. But it was steady.

When I finally started walking again in late October, it felt like a reset. I told myself I wasn’t behind, I just had a different path. The coaches here saw that too. They didn’t try to rush it. They just helped me build something that made sense for where I was.

And slowly, it started to come back.

I didn’t compete in December. I was still catching up. But I kept working, kept building, and by the time the season opened, I was in the lineup. At a place like Nebraska, that alone is a win.

Then we lost Coach Jim Hartung.

That hit harder than anything. He was my coach, my guy—an Olympic legend. For three years, he coached me without ever speaking—writing everything down, every correction, every thought. I still have all his notes. They’re hanging in my room.

Losing him right before the season made me question how I was supposed to keep going. But in a weird way, it also gave me something to hold onto. 

A reason to keep pushing.

 

 

 

 

 

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Where I Come From

I’m from Lawrence, Kansas. That’s home. Always will be.

I grew up with two older brothers who played football and a younger sister who plays volleyball. Our house was competitive in the best way. We had a big yard, a basketball hoop, and a lot of energy. My parents never forced sports on us, but it was just part of how we grew up.

Gymnastics, though. That was different.

I was discovered when I was 2 or 3, at a birthday party. Coaches saw something in me and got me into it early. But as I got older, it wasn’t exactly the cool thing to do, especially for a guy in the Midwest. There weren’t role models around me. There wasn’t a clear path.

At one point, I quit for a year to try to be like my brothers who played football, basketball, and baseball. I hated it. There’s footage of me doing backflips in football pads. That should tell you everything.

Going back to gymnastics was the first time I really chose something for myself.

And from there, everything else followed. The long drives to Kansas City to train. My family rotating days to get me there. The quiet work that nobody really saw.

It wasn’t a loud journey. But it was mine.

 

 

 

 

 

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Bigger Than Me

If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that gymnastics can’t just be about you.

I’ve had moments in my career, from national titles to big meets and making lineups, but the thing I’m most proud of isn’t a score. It’s the work I’ve done with Dream On 3.

We raise money, plan weekends, and create experiences for kids with life-altering conditions. It’s a lot of work, but it’s worth it. Seeing those kids light up and staying in touch with them changes your perspective fast.

That’s where I’ve found the most meaning.

I’ve also learned that if you’re going to do something, especially something like gymnastics that isn’t always recognized, you have to own it. There’s no one else building the path for you. You build it yourself.

That’s what I’d tell any kid in my shoes.

If you love it, stick with it. The recognition might not come right away. It might not come in the way you expect. But the opportunity will be there if you keep showing up.

For me, that’s what this season is about. Not perfection. Not proving anything to anyone else.

Just showing up, every day, for Nebraska, for my teammates, and for the version of myself that refused to quit when everything said it should.