Successful does not mean Peaceful
In high school, I was a runner, and I even ran a bit in college. Running, back then, was a part of my identity. Something about the clean-cut sport of track fueled me. I valued the clarity of the finish line and the preciseness of the stopwatch. I committed seven years of my life to the sport. Ultimately, stepping away from all my other athletic commitments my senior year to fully focus on the goal of receiving a scholarship.
Oddly enough, the people close to me at that time would not, and could not, say that I loved running. Though I was running a minimum of 5 miles a day; it was not because I enjoyed it. It was a means to an end, and that end was success.
The sport itself made me a nervous wreck. Literally. The anxiety I had for racing would debilitate me. I never slept the night before a meet, and I was physically ill every hour of the 24 that preceded a race. On a few occasions, I even passed out at school (like actually fainted more than once) because of my utter fear of failing in a competition.
I was never more socially awkward than when I was at a track meet- and if you know me at all, you know I can have a flare for social awkwardness from time to time- but this was a whole other level. Upon arrival, I could hardly speak. If someone talked to me in the bullpen, prior to a race, there was a solid chance I was going to burst into tears because I was so nervous. Yet sometimes, I would be rude and offensive, and not even I knew which version of my anxiety would respond during those instances. So, masses of people, strangers included, eventually learned just to not to talk to me at all. Even my coaches would take a cautious look at my condition before approaching me on those days. Every individual race I ever entered; I could have vomited at the starting line. It was an odd time in my life, and while I knew it was extreme; it all felt very much out of my control.
I never learned how to master my emotions on the track. Even in college, having no real expectations to be the best, it was slightly better, but not by much. My first week of college competition my coach was very caught off guard by the severity of my emotional condition. At practice one day, he asked: “Have you always been like this?” to which I responded “No, it’s actually always been much worse…” to which he responded, “Then why the hell would you keep doing it?” Hmm. A valid question I had never taken the time to consider…
I was good at running and therefore I ran. I told myself I enjoyed the success, even though it was clearly not enjoyable to my psyche. I’m sure there’s a metaphor to be found in this story that points to the fact that just because you are good at something doesn’t mean it deserves your time, and while that might be true for various seasons of life, that’s not what I learned from this one. I have a deep gratitude for my running career, and I’m grateful I gave it a shot in college, even though I quickly decided it wasn’t for me.
Track truly taught me that outward success does not, and will not, equal internal success. Aside from ever earning a state medal, I accomplished every goal I ever set out to achieve in track and field. I won countless races, set school records, competed at the state level and eventually earned the athletic scholarship I worked so hard to attain, but even after all those things- I didn’t have peace. My anxiety, and fear of not measuring up, only grew with each accomplishment. The stakes were higher with every milestone, and in my opinion, that’s the way life should be. But if we are waiting for our accomplished goals to hand us a sense of complete wholeness, we will unfortunately be waiting for a very long while…