The sun glared brilliantly over the track
the next morning, its warmth seeping into the surface, as if daring us to outshine its
brilliance.
The chatter of my teammates filled the air, electric with excitement.
Energy buzzed around us like static, crackling with the anticipation of district qualifiers just days away.
I jogged up to Baihe, who immediately flashed me her trademark grin.
"There you are! I was starting to think you
were going to let me steal all the glory today."
I laughed—a genuine laugh that felt like a release.
"Not a chance. Someone's got to keep you humble."
Her laughter joined mine, light and free. It wasn't much, but it felt like a crack in the fog that had clouded my mind. Maybe today could be different.
Coach Ling's whistle pierced through the air, pulling us into a circle.
"Listen up, team. Districts are around the corner, and this is where champions are made. Every sprint, every drill, every single effort you put in today is a step toward owning that finish line. Let me hear it—what are you going to give me?"
"Everything!" The team roared in unison, their voices powerful, their determination tangible.
I felt a surge of adrenaline course through me as the team broke into smaller groups. The rhythmic pounding of feet on the track, the distant clang of weights, and the encouraging shouts from teammates created a symphony of focus and ambition.
The first set of sprints was grueling, the kind that left your legs burning and your lungs fighting for air. But today was different.
Every time I felt myself falter, I heard Baihe's voice pushing me forward:
"Come on, Taryn, you've got this!"
And behind her encouragement was the backdrop of cheers from the sidelines—a growing group of students who had gathered to watch.
"Go, Taryn!" they shouted. "You're killing it!"
Their voices carried me, louder and brighter with every lap I completed. By the time we hit the final sprint, my muscles screamed in protest, but my heart refused to quit.
This wasn't just about crossing the finish line—it was about showing myself that I could.
"Let's go, Taryn!" Baihe yelled, matching my pace stride for stride.
"Almost there!" another voice called, followed by an eruption of applause as I pushed through the finish line, collapsing into the soft grass with exhilaration coursing through my veins.
I was breathless, drenched in sweat, but the sound of clapping and cheering filled me with an unexpected lightness.
My name reverberated in the air—a reminder that, for all the doubts I carried, there were people who believed in me.
Their energy was electric, and in that moment, I began to believe in myself, too.
"Nice work out there," Coach Ling said later, pulling me aside. His tone was firm, but there was a flicker of pride in his eyes. "That's the Taryn I know—the one who doesn't let anything hold her back."
I nodded, my confidence growing.
"Thanks, Coach. I'm ready to give it everything."
"And you should," he said, clapping my shoulder. "Because I know you've got it in you. Keep this up, and districts will be yours to dominate."
As he walked away, his words lingered, filling me with something I hadn't felt in a long time—hope.
The positivity carried me through the rest of the day. By the time practice ended, the cheers from my teammates and the students on the sidelines had left me invigorated. The walk home felt lighter, the world around me bursting with color and possibility.
When I got home, Grandma was waiting in the kitchen, the aroma of freshly baked bread wrapping me in comfort. She turned to greet me, her smile as warm as the sun. "How was practice, Taryn?"
"It was great," I said, setting my bag down. And for the first time, I meant it.
"That's what I like to hear," she said, beaming. "Hard work always pays off, you know."
Her words settled in my chest, a gentle reminder of the truth I'd been grappling with. I wasn't running in circles. I was building something—step by step, lap by lap.
That evening, my phone buzzed with a flood of messages.
My teammates were hyping each other up in our group chat, sharing memes and encouragement about how we were going to take districts by storm.
Baihe's message stood out: "You were incredible today, Taryn. I knew you had it in you. Just imagine what you'll do at districts!"
I smiled, the warmth of her faith in me melting the remnants of doubt. She was right—I had more to give, and I was ready to prove it.
The next morning, I arrived at school to find an even larger group of students waiting by the track. Their cheers started the moment they saw me, their voices rising in a chorus of support.
"Taryn! You've got this!" one shouted.
"Crush it, Taryn!" another added.
Their positivity was infectious, charging the air with excitement. As I stretched and prepared for practice, the energy around me built into a wave that I couldn't help but ride.
Every sprint, every drill, every ounce of effort I put in felt amplified by the encouragement pouring in from all sides.
By the time practice ended, I was exhausted but exhilarated. As I walked off the track, students greeted me with high-fives, their enthusiasm lifting me higher than any medal ever had.
"Taryn, you're amazing," one of them said, their sincerity shining through.
"You're going to inspire so many people at districts," another added.
The word "inspire" resonated in a way I hadn't expected. For so long, I'd felt like I was chasing something intangible, trying to prove my worth to myself and my family. But maybe this was the key—using my journey to not only find my own strength but to remind others of theirs, too.
As I headed home, the glow of positivity followed me. The path ahead felt less daunting. The finish line was still distant, but it no longer felt like a burden. It was a goal—a challenge I was ready to face, step by step, stride by stride. I was determined to run it with everything I had.