During a conversation, a classmate called me a coward for throwing away my running shoes. He was obviously joking, but it made me think about my time on the track team four years ago.
Seventh grade was the most enjoyable track and field year. My sister told me to run the mile and half-mile because no sane person would want to run that much. Unknown to her, I was hitting eight minute miles in elementary, and loving every second of it.
Everyday I went to practice and worked my butt off. While others talked, I ran. They rested, I ran. Practice ended and I ran some more. It was hard work but the adrenaline, the feeling of shoes hitting the turf, and the thought of the timer got me excited.
My sister and I made a bet that if I could beat her fastest mile time, 7:05, she would buy me food. I took up her challenge and in the end, broke her time with a 6:45. A few weeks later, I won Most Valuable Player for C-girls (girls under five feet). It was just a measly ribbon, but it was the best way to end the season.
In eighth grade, when the season came, I was ecstatic, until I realized that one of the fastest girls in school was joining. I panicked. I was scared of disappointing my coach and my friends if I was not fast enough. It felt like, being the fastest C-girl last year and winning MVP, there was much more pressure on me.
I worked as—if not—harder than I did the previous year. I spent every day telling myself to run faster and better and that I could have worked harder and could have ran more laps during practice. My one goal during that season was to make sure I didn’t disappoint. I ended middle school with my fastest time, 6:15. I should have been happy. I really should have. But something had changed. Running no longer felt like my happy-place, it had become a routine.
Entering high school, I thought I could start over my running career, do P.E. and run with no expectations. But it didn’t work that way. My times got worse and I became disappointed in myself for not being better. At one point, I stopped putting on my shoes at all because I was afraid of the numbers on the timer.
Then I read a quote somewhere that said, “Hobbies are just dreams that people are too afraid to pursue.” Seventh grade, I could have envisioned myself running forever and, because I loved it too much for it to be a hobby, running was my dream, right? I kept convincing myself that I was in a slump, that I would do better tomorrow, and that this was my dream.
When my parents told me to join a sport in high school, the only thing I thought I enjoyed enough to do was track and field. I joined and was thrown into a whirlwind of running. I came home with sore muscles I didn’t even know existed. Next day was the same thing.
I knew for a fact I was miserable. But again, my head kept telling me I wasn’t a quitter. I wouldn’t quit because running is what people knew me for. If I left, then people would ask questions. Would they even remember me?
So I stayed. For four days.
On a Monday afterschool, I broke down. I thought back to the past days where I dreaded going to practice and hoping that school was longer. I hated the thought of running and four hours later, I walked out.
The moment I left campus, it felt like the world was off my shoulders. I didn’t have to force myself to run anymore. I didn’t have to fear the timer anymore. I wouldn’t have the voices in my head bring me down. At that point, I realized that maybe running isn’t my dream, because dreams weren’t supposed to feel like this.
So, am I a coward for quitting? I don’t think so. In fact, I think it was pretty brave of me to leave a part of my past behind.
Seventh grade was the most enjoyable track and field year. My sister told me to run the mile and half-mile because no sane person would want to run that much. Unknown to her, I was hitting eight minute miles in elementary, and loving every second of it.
Everyday I went to practice and worked my butt off. While others talked, I ran. They rested, I ran. Practice ended and I ran some more. It was hard work but the adrenaline, the feeling of shoes hitting the turf, and the thought of the timer got me excited.
My sister and I made a bet that if I could beat her fastest mile time, 7:05, she would buy me food. I took up her challenge and in the end, broke her time with a 6:45. A few weeks later, I won Most Valuable Player for C-girls (girls under five feet). It was just a measly ribbon, but it was the best way to end the season.
In eighth grade, when the season came, I was ecstatic, until I realized that one of the fastest girls in school was joining. I panicked. I was scared of disappointing my coach and my friends if I was not fast enough. It felt like, being the fastest C-girl last year and winning MVP, there was much more pressure on me.
I worked as—if not—harder than I did the previous year. I spent every day telling myself to run faster and better and that I could have worked harder and could have ran more laps during practice. My one goal during that season was to make sure I didn’t disappoint. I ended middle school with my fastest time, 6:15. I should have been happy. I really should have. But something had changed. Running no longer felt like my happy-place, it had become a routine.
Entering high school, I thought I could start over my running career, do P.E. and run with no expectations. But it didn’t work that way. My times got worse and I became disappointed in myself for not being better. At one point, I stopped putting on my shoes at all because I was afraid of the numbers on the timer.
Then I read a quote somewhere that said, “Hobbies are just dreams that people are too afraid to pursue.” Seventh grade, I could have envisioned myself running forever and, because I loved it too much for it to be a hobby, running was my dream, right? I kept convincing myself that I was in a slump, that I would do better tomorrow, and that this was my dream.
When my parents told me to join a sport in high school, the only thing I thought I enjoyed enough to do was track and field. I joined and was thrown into a whirlwind of running. I came home with sore muscles I didn’t even know existed. Next day was the same thing.
I knew for a fact I was miserable. But again, my head kept telling me I wasn’t a quitter. I wouldn’t quit because running is what people knew me for. If I left, then people would ask questions. Would they even remember me?
So I stayed. For four days.
On a Monday afterschool, I broke down. I thought back to the past days where I dreaded going to practice and hoping that school was longer. I hated the thought of running and four hours later, I walked out.
The moment I left campus, it felt like the world was off my shoulders. I didn’t have to force myself to run anymore. I didn’t have to fear the timer anymore. I wouldn’t have the voices in my head bring me down. At that point, I realized that maybe running isn’t my dream, because dreams weren’t supposed to feel like this.
So, am I a coward for quitting? I don’t think so. In fact, I think it was pretty brave of me to leave a part of my past behind.