“RUN,” said the thundering voice in my head. And there she was, towering high and glaring at me: a tall, skinny female Usain Bolt, or so I thought.
On an ordinary sunny Friday morning in the life of a tenth grader, a fierce battle was about to take place. The excruciatingly loud right-hook of a high school bell knocked me out of reality as ‘reading time’ began. While I devoured the pages of The Host – a novel written by Stephanie Meyer, the novel transformed into a battlefield that sparked open a velvet tunnel. Voices arose, accompanied by magnificent trumpets and harps. These were voices that were all too familiar, voices that I had heard for over 15 years of my life. They were hewn out of an emerald of positive criticism, molded in compassion, drenched in truth and delivered by a jab-jab-right hook. Out of the swarm of voices I could discern my parents’ voice of correction, my siblings’ voice of disapproval and my friends’ voice of concern and critique. With minimal resistance, I yielded to these voices of wisdom and was instantly filled with strength and good courage. My feet picked up the pace and began jogging to the reigning tunnel rhythm.
All too soon, the red tunnel led me out to a running track stadium, which was overflowing with a cloud of chanting witnesses. And there she was again, warming up at the starting point of the racetrack. She appeared to have shrunk half the size. Suddenly, I understood that all the height that she had shed and the weight that she has gained was an awe-inspiring imagery. It was one that portrayed the extermination of temper tantrums, timidity and lack of self-esteem. Low and behold, the saturation of boldness and love of self overwhelmed my soul. It dawned on me that I was about to embark on a race, not with a female Usain Bolt, or time itself, or an ideology, but against myself. Opportunity the size of Kilimanjaro such as this does not come stomping down your avenue everyday. So, I knew without a shadow of doubt that I had to partake in this race.
All too soon I heard: “Ready…Set…Go.” The race commenced following a starting gunshot.
100 meters.
Laura is 10 meters ahead of me.
200 meters.
Laura is still 5 meters ahead of me. She is breaking a sweat, panting and quickly running out of breath. Her muscles are now tensing and I can smell opportunity lurking around the corner.
250 meters.
I shake hands with opportunity and take a 15-meter lead on Laura, leaving all traces of doubt, fear and consuming anger behind me. The horizon begins to stretch to vast extremities as Laura’s gasping breath dwindled in the background.
350 meters.
The finish line is dressed before my eyes: mine for the taking. Beyond that ribbon lies an abundant, daring life of risk and opportunity. The sound of the heart pounding in my chest and a three-edged sharp sword of a mind emboldened me to go the distance.
400 meters.
I have successfully vanquished the belief that the enemy is out there in the world, out to get me, when really the enemy lies within the 6 inches between my temples.
The fact remains, that this race against self is a series of battles that I will affront head on throughout my whole life, races that I will gladly partake in, in an attempt to keep pushing myself, extending my limits and conquering new territory.
