Fun fact: my middle school gym teacher called me “grossly unfit” in seventh grade. Most of my life, I’ve been nowhere near athletic, until very recently, when I started picking up jogging. I’ve trained myself up to a slow ten miles, which I’m proud of, but it pales in comparison to my friends on cross country.
Growing up, I was always a band kid, not an athlete. And as a “band kid” in an oppressively cliqued-up high school environment, I barely explored my interest in running. I picked up jogging during quarantine, but was always too insecure about my pace to admit that it was something I enjoyed. This summer, I fully dedicated myself to running five days a week, just for myself.
As I ran, I admired how tall the trees around the sycamore grove stood. I stared at the passing train in the distance. I stepped over cracks of my past selves, reflected on where I’ve succeeded, and where I need to run next. Perhaps I was always running toward something ineffable, grasping at dandelions until they burst into my palms.
I remembered when I was in 6th grade, auditioning for a tenor saxophone solo. My lungs filled with oxygen, as I spit out notes with a blaring boom. I didn’t get the solo. Years later, I went on to lose at All-State and forgot the version of myself that would cry over music.
A few weeks ago, I was talking to my friend about cross country. She told me about her experience running in high school, and all of a sudden, my memories started flooding back. For the first time, I laid it all out. We shared our experiences of disappointment from mentors, competition with classmates, and dedication to a craft that most people wouldn’t be able to appreciate.
When I didn’t make All-State on clarinet, my home instrument, I gave up a decade of dedication. There was no Juilliard, Eastman, or Curtis. I simply wasn’t good enough, even after the seven-hour practice sessions on Saturdays. I waved goodbye to controlling private teachers, condescending instructors, and a culture that perpetuated a hostile peer environment.
I haven’t been able to share this side of me for years. Perhaps it was because I was still embarrassed, or because I didn’t want to think of the disappointment of simply failing.
I can imagine a world where my friend and I had supportive high school environments. One that allowed me to explore music as well as track, without the constant pressure of perfectionism. One that allowed her to run, just to run, with friends beside her rather than against her.
So much of who I am is intertwined with clarinet, tenor saxophone, and music. I understand the world through this training and my lived experience. No matter how hard I want to divorce myself from music, I’ll always love the feeling of my fingers pressing on metal keys. It’s a part of my childhood, with some good memories and some bad.
I can’t speak for athletes, but I understand how inseparable success can seem from your self-worth. Making a personal record does not seem wholly unlike the grades I’d receive at the end of playing my piece. We’ve likely all cried over our losses, and sobbed over our wins.
But, when I run now, I have the ability to learn a new skill in my own way. I can test myself, make personal records, and sprint alongside my friends.
So I ask: can we change the way we think about sports, music, and competition?
