More than an athlete.

My rise to aerobic prominence is a pretty standard story: unathletic kid who has some big dreams and doesn’t have many friends decides on a whim to join the cross country team. Said kid starts taking training seriously and down the road, he’s an all-conference, state-qualifying athlete.

Of course, there’s a bit more to it than that. To really comprehend how we go from point A to point E in this story, you need some background information about me. I’d probably describe myself as being an introverted extrovert. I’m definitely “energized” by being around others, but after witnessing the things I’ve witnessed, I don’t naturally like or gravitate towards most people. I also hadn’t previously been involved in organized activities at any point in my life. I really had no idea how to act when people congratulated or praised me.

Because of this, I feared those around the program would think I was weird once I became a “varsity athlete”. So I created something of a “mask” when I was interacting with those who expected me to be the standard archetype of the charismatic athlete who loves his team and wears his heart on his sleeve every weekend.
After some time I made it to the point that people started facetiously calling me a “track star” or “a cheetah”. Suddenly, people who previously would not have given me the time of day were asking what my plans were tomorrow (life lesson here: don’t trust the devil even in a new dress.) My confidence went through the roof; peers at school knew my name; parents and coaches on the team loved me; my teammates revered me. I went from being a nobody to being the man. Things were hecking awesome. I graduated with honors. I decided to continue my running career in college and had recently committed to a program I’m lucky to have a chance to be a part of. I also was peaking at the right time of the season, pr’ing every weekend. It was time to tear it up at Regionals. But in the wise words of Kenny Rogers, “you never count your money when you’re sittin’ at the table.”

Long story short, I missed out on qualifying to the State Meet by less than half a second. My high school career was over. The heartbreak I felt when I crossed the line is indescribable. As if my soul wasn’t broken enough, having to stand on the podium as a failure in front of friends, teammates, parents, staff, and coaches who’d believed in me finished the job. When I got home that evening, I couldn’t hold back my tears for the first time in over a decade. I didn’t even bother attempting to sleep that night; I knew it’d be in vain. The next morning at seven I put on my mask and headed out to grad parties for the next 48 hours, avoiding returning home to a messy room and an empty medal.

All it seemed that people wanted to talk about was the race. For days, no matter if I was at home with my family or out somewhere trying to clutter my mind, that's all I heard. That I was SO CLOSE to qualifying. Did I know I was that close the final lap? Damn, I had no idea I was a blink away from everything I’d given blood, sweat, and tears for. Thanks for bringing it to my attention, as if the images of the final 100 meters weren’t all that flooded my mind. I was drowning in guilt and regret. I confided with individuals I believed could empathize with my issues that I couldn’t come back up for air. The most common piece of advice: stop sulking and get over it. Eventually, my mask completely wore off.

Nobody asked me what my plans for tomorrow were anymore; a Significant other became an insignificant Other. The relationships I had with my parents began to crumble (a result of other issues in my personal life at the time). As if I couldn’t suffer more heartbreak, it finally dawned upon me that people only loved me for the runner I was. No one really knew me, they knew the mask. Once my running career as we knew it was over, they were over me. They loved John Doe, school record holder, not John, My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy enthusiast. This caused me to spiral into a tailspin. I made some poor consumption choices, and I don’t mean junk food (maybe if my diet wasn’t terrible I would’ve made up that half-second. Also Mr. West: I can confirm that the pain is worse than the hangover.) I could barely sleep, not because of nightmares, but because my dreams were too joyous. When I’d drift off, I’d return to a past world in which people were still by my side. It wasn’t much, but it was more than enough. When I woke, I’d feel the heartbreak of losing it all again.

Panic attacks became just a part of my evening routine. I thought as a distance runner I’d already conquered pain. In reality, I had only conquered physical pain; I couldn’t even begin to fight the despair of witnessing your happiest memories fade away into unbearable sadness. I took my time off of running, then took some more. Going out for an easy run always used to be a comforting experience. A tranquil moment in which I could be alone with my thoughts. Now, my thoughts were the last thing I needed to be alone with. My whole world had crumbled right before my eyes, all because I couldn’t run half a second faster.

They say pride comes before a fall. In this instance, my pride halted my fall. I was in a deep depression; so deep that my mind had begun to wander towards killing myself. After all, my dreams were the only place I could feel unbroken again. A permanent state of rest sounded exactly like what I needed. I reached the point that I decided I needed to have a note on hand in case I swiftly decided to end it all. For nine straight nights, I’d sit down in the very same chair I’m sitting in as I write this now to draft my goodbye. Fortunately, I have always had a great deal of pride in my writing and the lasting impact I have on people. Because of this, I could never write the right note. I could barely get down more than an opening sentence.

With time, a lot of Kid Cudi, and eventually finding the motivation to seek help (a major turning point was hearing Gabe Grunewald’s inspirational story. It’s truly amazing how many hearts one special gal can reach), the fleeting thoughts of suicide faded away. This doesn’t mean I feel whole again; I’ve accepted that I’m a broken man and likely always will be. But acceptance is the final stage of grief.

I’ve started running again with a different fire in my heart than the one I had relied on before. It feels softer, yet clearer. I still have yet to really branch out again—at this point in the summer, it's clear my subconscious is waiting until reaching college to try and connect with others on a personal level. I wouldn’t say I’m lonely; in fact, I feel more complete than I have in a long time. As a result of this isolation, I have had a lot of time alone for thought and contemplation. This has led me to several realizations, some of which have reshaped my life outlook. This brings us to my purpose for writing this and for you to have to read through my sob story.

First things first: you can’t make people who only love the idea of you love your true self. It's impossible to beat out a nonexistent man. No matter how good a mask you construct, you can’t possibly live up to everyone’s expectations. Yes, those that abandon your ship at the first sign of distress are shallow, but can you really blame them? Everyone wears a mask; some are simply better at hiding it than others. You’ll deal with shallowness your entire life. Just don’t dive headfirst into that pool as I did.

I put on the mask everyone came to know as a result of being ashamed of not loving the spotlight. I won’t lie, this whole experience has made me a more isolated, bitter, disenfranchised individual. But that's ok. We don’t all need to fit into one of the molds society has put before us. Introvert or extrovert, just be the best “you” you can be. And maybe this is all for the better; the competition should be terrified of the runner they’re about to meet this fall.

My most significant revelation was this: I was and am more than an athlete. The person people thought of me as gave them hope. Something to cheer for and believe in. I was an ideal. It doesn’t matter that I failed; I had already made a positive impact on others’ lives. That’s what really matters, not my impact on heat sheets. I’d already made some worlds better places, regardless of the outcome of that race. Coaches will tell the story of the kid who went from the 23s to 15s for years to come, and one day it may strike a chord with another youngster new to the sport who has some big dreams.

Now as I go off to college halfway across the country, my purpose has never been clearer: be far more than an athlete. Regardless of how my collegiate athletic career turns out, the most crucial task is to make a positive impact not only in my running community but the entire community. To inspire change, whether it be to help someone understand the quiet, awkward people in their class or campaigning to reduce the number of plastics in our oceans. To be there for people when they need me, and more importantly, bow out when they don’t. Someday I’ll claim my last medal. Run my last race. All good things come to an end. This is what my naive past self didn’t foresee. Things were good; therefore, they had to end. There’s no use in fighting a natural conclusion to your story. Don’t fret the end; your legacy won’t only be dictated by how fast you ran. Just do the best you can in the present.

I am more than an athlete. So are you.

- Anonymous