Emma Gee

It was the third cross country race of my freshman year at Brigham Young University, and the second race I messed up. It was important that I not mess up this race; it was the competition that would qualify my team for nationals and allow me to keep my spot on the travel team. 

I trained hard to make it on the travel team; a feat not often accomplished by an 18-year-old freshman. I ran 50 miles a week. I weight trained three times a week. I finished first in workouts. I watched what I ate. I sat in the ice bath. I grimaced my way through recovery massages. I tried to get 9 hours of sleep with six loud roommates. I didn’t have a social life.

Sound like hell?

It was. But so worth it to be the college athlete I always envisioned.

For about two months.

The confusing transition to college, the expectation, the isolation, and the all-encompassing pressure caught up to me. I had no idea how to help myself. The things I did in high school weren’t enough anymore. My talent wasn’t enough. And I wasn’t good enough for people to want to help me.

The night before the second race where I messed up, I slept poorly. My nerves slept great. They had enough energy to become full blown panic by the next morning. When I stepped on the line to start the race, I was exhausted. The gun went off and…

Ever since I started running in fourth grade, a recurring nightmare has haunted me. The gun goes bang. The race begins. I pump my arms, push one foot off the ground, and run. I’m running and running and running but everyone goes by me and I realize I’m running in slow motion. No matter how hard I try, it’s like I’m running through honey.

I hate it when nightmare becomes reality. 

Anyway, the race sucked, and I sucked, and I was sucked into a vortex of regret, confusion, and self-pity. Meanwhile, my team qualified for nationals and I was done racing for the season. The reality of D1 athletics is that an athlete only gets a few chances to mess up before they get the plug pulled on competing.  Failure isn’t allowed for long. 

My team celebrated as we drove back to our hotel. I sat silently in the backseat, trying not to cry.  I needed to find a place to be alone. Unfortunately, the race was in an obscure town in Wisconsin and it was 30 degrees outside.  I walked to the only building within a mile of our hotel, a Starbucks.

I settled into a corner and called my mom. I started crying. She asked what was wrong.

What was wrong?

Everything would be an understatement.

“I did it again…I messed up. I don’t know if I can do this anymore. I work so hard and it’s all for nothing. I’m tired all the time and I’m not happy. I care so much and I’m breaking and no one here cares. I don’t know what to do and no one cares.”

Crying turned into deep, heartbroken sobbing. The kind that shakes the soul, emits ugly sounds, and incites hopelessness.  My fellow Starbucks customers looked up in annoyance. An emotional breakdown in Starbucks? Really?

 My sobs echoed louder.  It was stupid to sit in a corner.

One woman got up, bought some chocolate candies, and grabbed a napkin. She packed up her computer, walked over to my corner, placed the chocolate candies and napkin in my lap, and walked out. I was still on the phone with my mom, so I didn’t get up. I just mumbled, “Thank you.”

It was another half hour before dehydration kicked in and I couldn’t cry anymore. My mom did her best to comfort me, sharing my grief, trying to help me find a way forward.

The question of the day was: Should I, knowing the pain and sacrifice, continue running and pursue the dream made by a little girl? Or should I move on from sports and make new goals?

These were core questions of identity. In my life, I was first and foremost a runner. That is how I saw myself and how I assumed others saw me. And while I lost far more races than I won, the lessons I learned and the identity I developed in athletics made me smarter and stronger in every aspect of life. Was I ready to walk away?

This was an important question for me to answer.

I didn’t have an answer.

 It was getting late and I didn’t want to walk back to my hotel in the dark, so I stood up to leave.

 And just like that, an answer fell out of my lap.

 I had forgotten about the chocolates and used the napkin to blow my nose. Both fell when I stood. As I picked the candy up, I noticed a small note attached to the back.

 In direct handwriting it said, “God loves you so, so, so much and he is so proud of you no matter what you decide.”

 And I decided to keep running.