The Inkwell Dispatch

After my name, my Instagram bio reads three things: 

edin જ⁀➴ abdn  

journo/head news editor @thegaudie  

ex gb gymnast 

The first two make reasonable sense. I’m a journalist and have my account open to the public to create more outreach for my writing related posts. I want people to know where I’m based for the same cause, in case it ever comes in handy professionally for publications who might be interested in my work. These two statements are pretty general, and I doubt they raise many eyebrows. The third is something different. “Ex GB gymnast”. The mention of my sport has always stationed itself permanently in my social media presence, starting when I first got Instagram at 10 years old and filled my grid with pictures of me flipping, competing and travelling. When I was an older teen and still training, I had carefully curated gym pictures in my highlights, each classic post-workout selfie serving to effortlessly display the defined muscles and low body fat I had so diligently worked to maintain. I had to keep a clear, yet effortless reminder for my peers, letting them know I was, in fact, a GBR gymnast. Maybe I hadn’t been to a birthday party in years and still refused to eat in public – but look at what I had to show for it! Travel, fellow sporting friends, a flat stomach, a cool tracksuit – the list goes on.  

Then, one day in 2022, it all stopped. I was worked up and agitated before a long Sunday training session, which was no change from usual. In acrobatic gymnastics, you need to compete in a pair or a trio, and as a base looking to train at a high international level, there was no suitable partner for me to work with. As a result, I was flying solo; lifting weights and stretching for hours at a time in my own corner of the mat. I watched my friends develop successful partnerships in Covid’s wake, building new routines and bigger opportunities. Fueled by a combination of teenage hormones, exam stress and constant hunger, I was naturally seething with jealousy. Any ability to be happy for my fellow gymnasts and their success had faded into envy and bitter disappointment. I had trained away my childhood, was physically at my peak, and had nothing to show for it. I let the feeling eat me up. I sat on the kitchen table 10 minutes before my mum was due to drive me the thirty minutes to Livingston and sobbed. My mum said one sentence – reminding me that I just didn’t have to do it– and this ‘permission’ was all I needed. I haven’t been back since. 

I’ll never know what exactly moved me to bring my gymnastics career to a halt in that moment, but it doesn’t matter now. There on the kitchen table, I left behind 12 years of sport, 10 years of competing, 8 years of representing Scotland, and 4 of Team GBR. I suppose I changed my Instagram bio pretty soon after, adding the subtle “ex”.  

That was almost 4 years ago now. These days, I stay pretty active, walking and casual gym-going. I don’t count calories or measure my waist. Clothes are for wearing, and their size doesn’t hold much meaning anymore. Every now and then, I check I’ve still got it in me to do a backflip and walk around my flat in a handstand. Luckily, I always still can. I’m not sure if those skills will ever leave me.  

So why keep “ex gb gymnast” in my bio? I’ve been hundreds of things before that I can no longer identify with, but I don’t keep those credentials on my social media. Bios would become incredibly tedious if we all kept an itemised list of roles we have played before. I suspect mine would look a little something like this: 

amelia boag mcglynn 

edin જ⁀➴ abdn  

journo/head news editor @thegaudie  

ex gb gymnast 

ex deputy-head girl 

ex CCHS student  

ex psychology degree-doer 

ex girlfriend (x2) 

ex only child 

ex gluten-enjoyer 

You get the gist. Yet I keep the reminder of my sporting past. Why?  

To explain, I can only think of missing birthday parties. As a kid, and a teenager, I felt I missed out on so many key social events constantly. At the start I was invited, often I’m sure as a part of an enveloping whole-class invite that parents make their kids do. As I got older, I had to decline even more invitations as training became more vigorous. Any free time I had was dedicated to studying and homework, and weekends were carved out for all-day training sessions and trips to competitions. Summer and Christmas breaks saw even more training hours than usual, and I was watched as social groups formed without me. I felt isolated, but proud of the sport I was pursuing. No one else in my class could do what I did, and at least a nice easy personality was carved out for me – gymnastics girl. I may have been relatively unknown, but I was nice enough, and once in a blue moon, would attend someone’s birthday.  

I struggled to maintain friendships and blamed it on my sport. At least with this big, noticeable hobby, I could have a reason for my lack of friends – I didn’t have to worry that it was my personality doing anything to offset the invites. It felt like the ultimate “yeah, but!” and I held it like a badge of honour. Something tangible to show for what else I lacked. I didn’t expect peers to know me well, and it kept me from being less offended when excluded. It wasn’t malicious – they just didn’t know me. I’m sure my lack of diagnosis also had nothing to do with these social struggles. But this piece isn’t about that can of autistic worms. 

 So, 17 and sportless, that little “ex” made all the difference. I hadn’t socialised like the friend group I had recently fallen into; having never drank, been to big parties, or made the classic pilgrimage to get drunk on the beach in North Berwick. To me, it said “Look! Here’s why I’m like this!”, a blanket to cover my failings.  

Since then, I’ve considered deleting it, feeling a little pathetic for holding onto a role from so long ago. A strange feeling would always crop up, like if I took it away, I wouldn’t have anything to show for the years of blood, sweat, tears and money my family and I had poured into Astro Gymnastics. I had no pictures of my sport on Instagram, and I certainly didn’t look like an elite gymnast anymore. No one could see the wardrobe filled with expensive leotards and tracksuits. Since then, I’d moved cities, gone to university and become mostly known by people who met me at 18 and never had the chance to know me as the gymnastics kid. My “ex gb gymnast” felt weighty, much more than the harmless sentence I had posited it to be. The statement had claw marks on it – I’ve never been keen on letting go.  

Nowadays, I’m surrounded by new people. I talk to different, interesting individuals every day, and find their interest in me shocking every time. Not in a self-deprecating way, I just sometimes forget there is much more to me than a sport. Selfishly, it is quite delightful to be found worthwhile outside of what used to be my main personality trait. I can’t say I hold any value in my old role anymore. My social life is unhindered (possibly too much, as I’m discovering in the lead up to exam season) and my friends know me as much more than an excuse to make up for what I’m not.  

As of today, the third line of my bio will be deleted. A small, yet important series of backspaces. I should probably delete it from my Hinge too.