I have an existential crisis every other day. 

Why do I exist? Do I actually exist… or do I just think I do? I often ponder the futility of life, of how everything you’ve ever done will eventually culminate in your death, a few passed-down belongings, and an overly glorified memory of the person you were.

For the moment then, putting all my uncertainties aside, I will affirm that despite my daily musings on how pointless my existence is, I have always intended to do my utmost to go to a good university to pursue my higher education. Preferably one that offers a renowned Philosophy course. Oh, and a great athletics program. 

If you know anything at all about me, you are familiar with my passion for everything running related. The reason is not as contrived as one may think. Yes, competing is exciting, winning is exhilarating, and the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other always seems to bring me an insurmountable sense of joy. However, the chief reason I love athletics is centred around what it did and continues to do for me as a person. I’m an introvert. I’ve always been shy and unconfident in the majority of my endeavours, unwilling to take a risk and share my opinion for the fear of judgement.

I found refuge in my passion for reading and writing. The idea of a subject where nothing is entirely certain and you have the right to your own thought processes and opinions intrigues me. I am certain that I want to pursue English further in University, through the study of English Literature or Creative Writing, most likely both.

Moving back outside of the classroom, when I was running or racing, I was always confident, assured of my own ability, ready to go out and seize the opportunity. They say that racing tactics tell you a lot about a person. I almost exclusively front run in every single race. That is well known in the world of running to be the riskiest position to take.

But I love it. For the pure thrill of it all, for the extreme excitement that followed with my first championship win. Running taught me so much about myself that I never knew. It helped me grow in all my other fields, too. Over the years, I worked to build up my confidence in the classroom and in social settings.

But confidence is fragile. Running gave me the illusion of perfection; of safety and assurance. That vision took years to build up, but just minutes to break completely. 

The day of my fourth SEASAC cross country was tuning out to be far from perfect. But I raced like I always did, pushing the pace to the farthest of my ability. Literally. With one kilometre to go, it seemed as though as I had pushed myself to the very limit. I was in first place by over a minute. But my body refused to cooperate as it struggled from the overwhelming combination of the jarring midday sun, a delayed race and a meagre breakfast resulting in glucose depletion: I never did eat too much before races. Not to mention the lethal course that was nothing like anything anyone had ever raced. It left the best of us collapsing, throwing up, fainting. I had witnessed an athlete from another school, upon finishing the race, experience a violent seizure just minutes before my race began, leaving myself and some of my teammates understandably shaken. To top it all off, I was going into the race with an injury. It wasn’t so bad as to stop me from running, but it was there nonetheless and I could always feel it. I almost didn’t finish the race, but with the help of my coaches and teammates, I crossed the finish line. I came 35th and cried.

After the race, my coach, in an attempt to lift my spirits, told me, “I’d rather have seen you coming up that hill the way you did, than in, say, eighth. You pushed yourself that hard because you cared.” 

It was true. I did care, a lot. I had always carried such high standards for myself, most of my pressure being intrinsic. The race left me completely and utterly gutted and I cried myself to sleep that night. I had let down not just myself, but my team and family too.

It took a lot to crawl out of that rut in the New Year, to look forward to the track season. I was still upset about it even as my track season was going really well. Just as I was starting to get hyped, Corona came along.

The pandemic gave me time to reflect. It gave me some perspective; in the big picture, my race was pretty insignificant. And in hindsight, I realize that I’m so grateful that the race happened. No matter how horribly it went, I still got the opportunity to compete, unlike many others with their SEASACs in later seasons. I was suddenly grateful for what I had previously labelled a wasted experience. I realised that I had two options: either I could sulk over it and try in vain to drive it out of my mind, or I could accept that it was what it was, and learn from it. Be better next time.

It was to date, my greatest failure. I hit rock bottom, and the only way from there was up. I came up with a list of things I could draw from the experience; things to work on in my training and racing. I needed better pre-race habits, to get accustomed to eating a proper breakfast. Focusing on warming up, recovering. Developing the skill set to race my best regardless of the weather or course. Working on hill running, grass and mud running. And perhaps most significantly, improving my pacing strategies.

That does not mean that I will go into races afraid to lead, afraid to try. I will still be aggressive, will still leave everything out on the course or on the track. But next time, I won’t just run with my heart, I’ll run with my head. As Henry Ford once said, “Failure is simply the opportunity to begin again, this time more intelligently.”

An opportunity to learn and be better next time. The relentless pursuit of improvement, not perfection. Nothing will ever be perfect, and maybe there is no point to my existence. But we can always make the choice to be better. To me, that’s what takes the futility out of life.