Dropping Out of the Race

    I wrote this piece a year ago to help me process the trauma that was my junior year cross country season. I talk about how dropping out of a race mentally and emotionally derailed me. I get real about my jealousy towards my teammates who somehow remained injury free or were "strong enough" to run through their injuries. I discuss my frustration with trainers and doctors and their failure to diagnose my pain. I end the piece with the realization that I needed to do recovery the right way, that my clinician and therapists were right. I could not properly recover without taking a serious break from running.

    My heart pounded as I stared at my college dorm room wall. Tears welled in my eyes, blurring my vision. My back pressed to the concrete wall; the skin that stretched over my butt bones was falling asleep on the cool hardwood floor. My stomach churned with manic butterflies. Pain radiated from my sacrum, all the way up my spine and down my legs. A scream welled in my throat like a knot. I couldn’t get it out. As I looked down at my hands, I absently noticed that I still had my bright purple cross country uniform on. Hot tears streamed down my face, steaming. 

I couldn’t believe that I was still in pain. My teammates- they never acquired injuries like I did. They were never set back like I was. I had been diagnosed with a mysterious back injury three months ago. No doctor or trainer has yet had an answer for my pain. 

So they told me to run.

And, foolishly, I did.

***

*September 2017, prior to the start of the race*

I began race day skeptically. My coach told me right beforehand;

“Run with our number two runner. You can do it.”

“Coach, I don’t think I can. It’s halfway through the season and this is my first race.” I said.

“You can do it.” She repeatedly disinterestedly, already looking at my other teammates in our racing box.

I wasn’t sure if I was ready to race, let alone race with the fastest girls on the team. I had only been pain free for about a week and I was nowhere near racing shape. I hadn’t run in a month. 

“Runners! Back to your boxes! The race will begin in one minute!” The man with the starting gun yelled into the megaphone. A spike of anxiety rippled through me violently, bursting from my heart to my fingertips. My legs shook. My head felt heavy. My whole body felt heavy. 

“Ready!” He said.

No.

“Set!” My chest tightened.

The gun went off with a sharp “bang.” I couldn’t feel my hands or my feet as my legs carried me. Almost instantly, I felt fatigued. My breath was labored. I couldn’t settle into the rhythm I was used to. I quickly started falling behind. The ponytails of the lead runners rapidly disappeared in front of me. 

One by one, I was picked off.

A lump formed in my throat. This isn’t what was supposed to happen. Teammates who had never gotten close to me in races passed me, telling me to “keep going” and that I was “doing great.”

Bullshit.

I was racing the slowest I had ever raced before. I had lost my touch. I was running out of time to catch up. 

I was slow now.

The worst part was that I wasn’t even in pain. I just had never felt so exhausted in my life.

With every step, my legs felt heavier. It felt as if I were hauling sandbags for legs. I felt paralyzed. I couldn’t breathe. And for the first time ever…

I walked. 

And I sobbed. My thoughts raced. They raced around my head faster than I could run. I didn’t know who I was, if I wasn’t fast, if I wasn’t skinny, if I couldn’t run at all. 

I realized I didn’t know who I was at all.

***

As I sat in my sweaty uniform hours later, staring at my egg shell white bedroom wall, I felt hopeless, helpless. I was angry at the pain in my back. I was angry at myself for being in pain. And I was angry that it was my fault for being in pain in the first place.

I thought back to partial hospitalization treatment for my eating disorder just months prior. They had told me I had done damage to my body from years of starving myself and overexercising. They advised me not to run my junior year cross country season. They told me I should consider taking an entire semester off from school.

I couldn’t. 

How could I?

But here I was, crying on my dorm room floor, in crippling emotional and physical pain. 

Perhaps they were right.

Perhaps I would eat. 

I just needed to eat.

Next race would be better.

There was going to be a next race.

I would make sure of it.

I climbed up from the floor, aching. A sharp pain shot from my sacrum to my knees. I slowly lifted myself into my lofted bed, closed my eyes, and drifted off to sleep.

***

A month later, I was ready. I had been eating. I had been running. I was still in a little pain. But today, I was going to finish my race.

“You’re going to race JV today since you technically haven’t run a race all season.” My coach told me prior to the race.

“Got it,” I said, annoyed. I knew I was as fast as the varsity girls now. But NCAA rules were NCAA rules.

“But if you get in the top seven on the team, you can go to Conferences in a couple weeks,” my coach added. My energy lifted. I thought I could do it.

“Really?” I asked, turning around to face my coach.

“Yep! So go out there and make us proud today!” She said, patting me on the shoulder.

“You got it, Coach!” I said excitedly. This would be my comeback race. I just knew it. 

***

When the gun went off, I was full of grace. My legs carried me effortlessly. Oxygen flowed crisply through my lungs, like water rushing through rock, slicing slowly, but rushing quickly. I had refound my rhythm. My limbs were electric. I passed competitors with each stride until the very end. I finished in ecstasy, like all my efforts had finally paid off. Going to treatment, eating again, and being kind to my body had finally paid off. I ended up finishing fifth on my team, and tenth overall, without even having raced with the top runners on the team. I had done it all by myself with the JV team. I was proud.

*October 2017, mile 3 of my comeback race*

I was going to Conferences!
Except, my coach had another condition;

“If you want to run Conferences, you have to run our next workout.”

“Coach, that’s going to be too much on my body. I can’t.” I said, my heart dropping.

“Yes you can,” she said, looking right at me this time.

“Okay,” I said.

***

The next practice, my back twinged. I ran hard, but my back seeped with electric pain. I maintained third place on the team with each mile repeat. I breathed with ease. My legs carried me autonomously. But my back… it burned in agony.

That night, I went to yoga. Stretching out my back would do me some good. However, as I raised myself from shavassanah, my body didn’t follow. My body stayed on the floor as my mind wandered above. My back felt as if it had split in half; my pelvis disjointed from my tailbone. I moved my legs with my arms and used my upper body strength to haul my legs up. 

I yelped in agony, surprising myself. My body wavered. I stood on my two feet with more pain than I had ever imagined. I hobbled back to my dorm, counting down the steps to my bedroom.

I stepped into my room; tears already melted away my mascara. I slowly, carefully, lifted myself into my bed and sobbed, softly.

This couldn’t be happening.

Not to me.

***

After seeing more trainers and orthopedic surgeons, there were still no answers. MRI’s came back inconclusive. I was told I could keep running.

But I knew I couldn’t.

I couldn’t.

Couldn’t they see that?

So, with tears in my eyes, I quit the sport that had previously defined me.

***

I didn’t eat or move for weeks. Perhaps my doctors from my eating disorder treatment were right.

Perhaps I wasn’t ready for school again. I wasn’t ready to be back in the “real world.” I was in so much pain emotionally and physically. I was so sick of feeling pain that I couldn’t think of anything else. 

But then I realized…

I was letting my pain control me.

I was no longer a runner or a student. 

I was my pain.

And that’s when I let go.

I let go of the expectation of being able to run again, of being pain free.

I felt a smile slowly spread across my face. 

Pain still shot down my spine. But I didn’t fixate on it. I let myself feel it. 

One day it would go away.

Perhaps not for a very long time.

But one day, I wouldn’t feel it anymore.

I stared at my ceiling, and gave myself permission to be.

Because although my body wasn’t as resilient as I had hoped, I was going to try my hardest to be tenacious. 

I would recover on fate’s timeline.

And for the first time in a very long time, 

I allowed myself to do just that.

Remember, be kind to yourself. I think we often overlook that quitting, leaving, or dropping out can be much harder than staying. Quitting is not a sign of weakness. Quitting can actually be empowering. Quitting can be a sign of strength. 

I have learned and continue to learn that sometimes, you have to drop out of the race to remember why you're even racing.

Stay safe out there.

With love,

Emily