The large, hangar-like studio smelled like chalk, rubber mats, and fresh antiseptic. Noises of gymnasts of varying age and skill reverberated around the open space despite the late evening. Training never stopped for long, especially for those looking to qualify. There wasn't room for error, a personal life, or hurt feelings. You learned that years ago when you arrived at the gym with big dreams and the naivety to think it'd be easy as long as you tried hard enough.

You hear a clap, and with a final flip, you dismount the beam with a salto. Sadacharya, your gymnastics coach, is waiting beside the mat.

"Your twist was off by 1/4th. Other than that, acceptable, " he says, looking you over. "How's that wrist?"

He's an intense man, but he cares for you in the way any good mentor would when you're aiming for Olympic qualifiers. All sharp eyes and sharper mind and body, his students fell over each other to get his attention. In the world of gymastics, having his approval was affirmation of worth. Where training was your life, it meant everything.