She runs so gracefully, her arms swinging back and forth, her legs flying, barely even touching the ground as she laps the girl in front of her. I am that girl—not the graceful one but the slow one who runs like a beanbag chair, hunched over and shuffling across the gravel, getting passed by the athletic ones. That pretty much sums up my freshman year of cross-country—a time when I could not even make it from the entrance of the school to the end of the parking lot.

During the summer going into high school, I thought I would branch out and join the cross-country team, craving that team-togetherness of high school sports without the required coordination of other activities like soccer or field hockey. My thinking was that cross-country would be relatively simple—run fast and don’t fall. No balls, or nets, or sticks to confuse me or reveal my incompetency. The first day, I laced up my worn out P.E. sneakers and tied my hair tightly with not one but two hair ties. As the team took off, their feet rhythmically tapping the pavement, I followed suit, eager to prove myself to these strangers—an intimidating collection of high school girls whose maturity radiated from their brace-less faces. For the first seven and a half seconds, my heart and feet raced in unison and I was a part of the pack.

I soon realized the inverse relationship that existed between my heart and feet: for some reason as my heart quickened, my feet slowed. I was the little engine that couldn’t. I managed to make it all the way to the entrance of the parking lot, at which point I stopped and keeled over to catch my breath. That day, I finished half of the run and made it back to the high school around a half hour after the rest of my teammates, who by then were done stretching and sat waiting to be dismissed. When I shuffled into view, they starting whooping and clapping and cheering me on until I reached the sidewalk that marked the end of the run. I laughed, embarrassed by the attention. I debated quitting cross-country with pretty much every step along the run but for a fleeting moment as I made my way to the team, I forgot all about the pain.

This fall will be my last season of cross-country. And while I may not be able to lead the pack on our runs or help the team win a meet, I can always make them laugh. All I have to do is bring up my first day of practice and remind them of the girl who couldn’t make it out of the parking lot. I would be lying if I said that I never thought about quitting after that first day when the girls cheered me to the finish line. The possibility crosses my mind all the time. Cross-country challenges me every day to run faster, run longer, run harder. Sometimes I ask myself what I have accomplished from these past three years of mediocre running. But the truth is, I love it. I love my teammates and I love the thrill and I love pushing myself, not only in running but in all that I do. I will never be the best at cross-country and I accept that wholeheartedly. The funny thing is that despite this knowledge, I will never stop trying. When the gun goes off during each cross-country race, my heart still pounds and my chest still tightens. I step up to the line hoping, praying, believing that I might win. And when I don’t, I am not defeated. I think back to that girl who could not run past the parking lot, I lace up my sneakers, tie back my hair with not one but two hair ties, and I laugh.