I heard the girls in the tent near me talking. “Why is that girl sobbing over there?” they said. Funny how they thought I couldn’t hear them. I noticed a little boy running to and from his parents, each time getting nearer and nearer. Frustrating how no one was stopping him from standing two feet from me and staring. Couldn’t I have just a few minutes alone to process what just happened!
The moment kept replaying in my head: when the crowd gasped and I realized what I had done. Minutes before, with a mile left in the race, I was letting the pack of girls ahead of me get away. My body was screaming at me to give up, to end the exhaustion. No, that’s never been an option in the six years I’ve run cross country; giving up is unacceptable. Finally entering the stadium and veering towards the finish line, I accidentally cut the corner and stepped out of bounds. The crowd’s reaction, a loud gasp in unison, still plays in my memory. Somehow I recovered my footing and finished, well behind the pack. In a state of shock and denial, I fell to the ground and balled up, ignoring my dad’s efforts to give me water. It didn’t make sense– Why had I done that? It felt like losing control of myself.
I had worked so hard, trained relentlessly, put my body through immense pain for this race, only to embarrass myself by performing so poorly. Needing to be alone, I headed off, away from the stadium. What a sight I must have been–a sweaty girl holding a paper cup full of water that spilled as I walked and cried simultaneously. My race spikes clanked against the pavement, causing stares of concern and confusion. I didn’t care; I wanted only to get away from the reality of what I had just done.
The tears just wouldn’t stop. I kept asking myself why God would let this happen, let all my effort fail me. Doesn’t anyone understand what I go through, how hard it is to do what I do? From success in the last nineteen races, people now expect me to win. They assume that running is a breeze for me. It’s not hard for Julia, they say. What they don’t see are the times I wake up at 6am to run 8 miles on a Saturday when everyone else is sleeping in. What they don’t feel is the biting pain during races and workouts. What they don’t know about is the pressure I feel with each competition.
For the next thirty minutes, I sat on the dirty ground in my sweat and filth. My water cup lay neglected next to me, my body screaming to hydrate. Again I questioned why God had let go of me.
Fortunately, my calmer self restored clarity. I realized that He hadn’t let go of me. I had let go of Him. I had become too consumed with the sport, no longer running for my team or for God, but for myself. Driven and motivated to win, I had let the pressure overtake me.
Those moments after the race taught me how much I cared about the sport. Granted, I already knew that it was important to my life, but had I known how important it is to me? I don’t think so. But a small part of me wondered: Is it worth all this pressure, all this pain, all this stress? The comfort and reassurance of friends and teammates helped me to refocus: this one race would not determine the rest of my high school or college running careers.
Failure has made me stronger. I better understand now that pain and sometimes disappointment are inevitable. God has given me a gift, one that I appreciate even more. It just took one wrong step off course, one gasp of the crowd to realize that.