Like a family member, you are something intimately connected to my identity. Just because I’m not always happy with you doesn’t mean I don’t always love you. We have grown together, you and I. I gave you my legs, my lungs, my stomach, my heart. I pushed myself past my own perceived limits to give you another apprentice. In competition, I tried to bring camaraderie and sportsmanship. In reflecting on my career, I hope I left my own version of a legacy. Isn’t that everyone’s goal: to leave a legacy?
But these things pale in comparison to the lessons you have taught me along the way.
Thank you for teaching me and my teammates discipline in the endless, difficult, sometimes-disheartening-but-ultimately-empowering training. If you want to excel, pain is the inescapable price. But within the discomfort, you pushed me far past limits I had almost settled for. You showed me that anyone can find success if they work hard and diligently enough. In that success, thank you for giving me the self-confidence I needed. You showed an insecure young woman that she is capable of excellence.
And then, when you had taught me confidence, you switched tactics. You taught me loss in a year-long series of injuries. You taught me how to grieve what could have been. You taught me self-awareness in an existential crisis. You taught me frustration in recovery. But without these things, I would not have learned the greatest lesson of all: humility.
Thank you for teaching me to be humble. Coming to terms with a new body and set of abilities was not easy—and oftentimes downright demoralizing—but it was a valuable and necessary lesson.
Finally, when you were satisfied with humility, you taught me perseverance. Thank you for one final opportunity on the national stage, but most of all: thank you for the team of women who carried me there. Thank you for the friendships built in the tedium of daily footfalls, countless miles, and the communal balancing act of academia, athletics, employment, and other extracurriculars. Success does not occur in a social vacuum; it takes a village of coaches, teammates, understanding professors, SIDs, and athletic trainers to create an athlete.
So, why do we run?
My answer: to learn. We run to learn about ourselves, our potential, our capabilities, and our limits. We run to push back the frontiers of our comfort zone. We run to remind ourselves that we are capable and resilient, and that athletics are a privilege that should never be taken for granted. Thank you for those lessons.