jumping in

On Anxiety, Resilience, and Double Dutch

 I am an anxious person. 

Which is to say: sometimes I’m too sad to follow up. Sometimes, the lump in my throat traps thoughts behind suppressed sobs. I have a million fire ants crawling under my skin, burrowing holes through my fascia. I fear the essence of me will leak out, like water moving through a sieve.

I never learned to jump double dutch.

I remember fondly when kids really played outside: organized games of hopscotch, or whatever version of tag required you to put your foot in a circle and chant, “dig, dig, dog shit, you are not it.” Jump rope was my thing, though even that sometimes brought a flutter of nerves, a tiny knot in my stomach as I counted the beats, trying to keep up.

Cinderella dressed in yella’. Went downstairs to kiss her fella. Made a mistake. Kissed a snake. How many doctors did it take? One, two…

In 1999, you were only as cool as your jump rope number, and when there was only one rope in the equation, I was That Girl TM. But double dutch? That was a different beast, one that turned the flutter in my stomach into a full-on buzz of excitement and dread.

The older girls tried to teach me how to jump into the ropes. Two of them held the ends, turning them slowly so I could catch the rhythm. A third girl stood to the side, flicking her hand into the ropes at just the right moment. The ropes sliced through the air with a whisper, creating a steady, hypnotic cadence.

Turn. Turn. “Go!” Turn. Turn. “Go!”

I can still hear them. Still feel that rhythm in my knees as I stood at the side, testing the timing. My legs twitched with the urge to move, but my feet stayed glued to the ground, weighed down by something I couldn’t name at the time.

Turn. Turn. “Go!” Turn. Turn. “Go!”

The ropes swayed in a hypnotic rhythm, a pulse I could feel in my knees and chest. The older girls were patient, coaxing me to step in, to jump, to trust the movement of the ropes. But I couldn’t do it. The fear was stronger than the rhythm. I could almost feel the sting of the telephone cord, the makeshift jump rope that once left welts on my skin. Even as a child, I didn’t understand why my body tensed at the sight of the ropes, why the simple joy of double dutch filled me with dread.

But I could never do it. The moment to jump always seemed to slip by, and I’d step back, heart pounding, as if the ropes were taunting me. I was terrified of getting slapped in the face with one of those ropes. The ropes—mostly just repurposed telephone cords—were thick and heavy, each turn a reminder of what could go wrong.

My daddy used to spank me with telephone cords before he found a good belt. They’d leave red welts that stung for hours. I’d lie in bed later, tracing the patterns on my skin, trying to forget. I don’t think I made that connection back then, between the ropes and the pain, but now, at 33, I see it clearly.

Double dutch is a metaphor for my anxiety.

I get that same hesitation, that same fear, that same spring in my knees that says “GO!” and “WAIT!” at equal volume. It’s the anticipation of movement, the readiness to leap, and the paralyzing fear that something will go wrong—right when I finally decide to jump in.

Photo by Jay Mullings on Unsplash

Anxiety is a rhythm I’ve known since childhood. It’s the familiar beat of something holding me back, the invisible rope that turns too fast, ready to snap against my skin if I misstep. I can stand on the sidelines, swaying to the rhythm, but when it comes time to actually jump in? Sometimes I freeze. My body remembers the sting of the cord, the way my skin would welt under its force. It remembers, even if my mind forgets.

And so, I hesitate.

I hesitate when I need to follow up on emails, when I need to speak up in meetings, when I want to say “yes” to something new but feel the weight of “no” pulling me back. The rhythm of anxiety is always there, reminding me of the risks. The risk of pain, of failure, and of everything that could go wrong.

Double dutch is supposed to be fun. It’s supposed to be about rhythm and movement, about joy and laughter. It’s a game, after all. And maybe that’s the cruel irony of anxiety—it takes something that should be simple, even joyful, and turns it into a source of dread.

But the thing about life, and about double dutch, too, is that the ropes don’t stop turning just because I’m afraid. And despite the hesitation, I’ve learned to jump in anyway. At least metaphorically. I’ve faced the slaps, the scrapes, the stumbles. I’ve fallen more times than I can count, but each time, I’ve picked myself up and found a way to keep moving. The anxiety hasn’t disappeared (I opened tis by saying I AM an anxious person. Present tense. It’s as much a part of me as the rhythm of my heartbeat)but I’ve learned to dance with it, to find my own rhythm within the chaos.

Life is messy, unpredictable, and sometimes downright terrifying. But I’ve discovered that the ropes can only trap me if I let them. I’ve jumped in, fallen, and gotten back up again. The stumbles don’t define me; it’s the getting up that does.

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I’m in a season of doing things I always dreamed of as a kid. I’m focusing on my writing, diving into the stories I’ve longed to tell. I’m going back to college to hone my craft, reclaim my agency, and find my voice. I’m curating the sneaker collection I could never afford, each pair a reminder of my journey and resilience. I live in a gorgeous apartment with granite counters, a space that reflects the woman I’ve become.

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Stay tuned for next week’s Recipe for Liberation, where I’ll continue to unpack the complexities of our shared experiences. Read the intro post here: