By Jaime Lintott

The problem is, I have Social Anxiety Disorder and as I get older, it gets worse, I get worse.

Prior to me joining Taekwondo, my life consisted Gilmore Girls reruns and a bag of Smartfood. The older I get the harder it’s become to get away with hiding in my room. I’m going to be 30 soon. I know this isn’t old but I also know that it’s old enough to have collected some pretty bad habits and really bad coping mechanisms, which, for me, mostly consisted of hiding or running scared.

Then, this past December, I watched Taekwondo at my local YMCA and fell in love.

Writer Stephanie Kuehnert Overcame Gym Class PTSD and So Can You!

As the child of two nurses, I was an active, healthy kid outside of school. I took swimming classes since before my first birthday and the pool was my favorite place to be all summer long. I was always enrolled in either dance or gymnastics. My primary forms of transportation were biking or rollerblading (well, as a child of the ’80s, I started with roller skates.) I even played baseball and basketball with my brother and boy cousins.  All of these activities were for fun. No one cared how well I did. It was never a competition.

Gym class, however, was a different experience. There the boys taunted, “oh my God, you suck!” at any missed swing, throw, or catch. I was always among the last to be picked and the first to be blamed for any losses.

But the worst thing about gym class wasn’t the bullying or the sexism or even that universal childhood trauma known as dodge ball. It was that goddamn yearly Presidential Physical Fitness Test (now known as the President’s Challenge.

Seeing the Real You Beyond the Mirror

Alyssa Milano smiles from behind me. Mia Hamm in her college uniform is here, too, looking strong and serious, concentrating on a point just beyond my shoulder.

The whole female cast of “Beverly Hills, 90210” gazes past me and into the mirror and Sheryl Swoopes in her Texas Tech uniform stares intently just above my head, her body sweaty and intense.

I am eleven-years-old, standing in front of my bedroom mirror.

It is a full-length mirror that hangs from my closet door. Images of women surround me: athletes and beautiful characters from TV. The posters cover my peach walls; those diverse and womanly forms greeting my eyeballs each day as I wake and get dressed for school. Right now, I have half an hour to get ready.

While the sun cuts soft slants of yellow light across my carpet, I stand naked in front of my mirror, astonished by what I see.