Personal Best
By Samantha Green
In cross country and track, the term “personal best” refers to the fastest time that an individual ran a specific distance in. As a runner, every mile you put in, along with the other sacrifices you make, are all dedicated to improving upon your personal best. Every time I ran a race in high school, I achieved a personal best; I was consistently improving. It was when I wasn’t plagued with injuries that I felt as if I was unstoppable— or so I thought.
January 1, 2019 was the day everything in my life changed. I woke up to the ear-shattering boom of a rifle outside my bedroom window followed by the screams and cries of my mom and dad. My older brother, only 21 years old, had just taken his own life.
New Year’s Day not only marked the beginning of the greatest challenge I have ever had to face, but also the greatest comeback I would eventually go on to achieve.
In the days and weeks following my brother’s death, my family and I went through the routine customs of having a wake and funeral. We were overwhelmed with an enormous amount of love, hugs, flowers and food from our friends and family, as well as from my small hometown of Park Ridge. I am forever thankful to everyone who supported my family and me in the darkest days of our lives.
As time went on, I thought that things were supposed to get easier, however, the opposite happened. Reality sunk in and I had to accept that this was my family’s new normal: a missing person at the dinner table and an empty bed in the room next to mine.
Things felt even harder when the attention I initially received following my brother’s death had slowly disappeared and everyone was going back to their normal routines except for me. It felt impossible for me to do the simplest of things. I felt hopeless and unmotivated so I stopped doing everything that I loved, including running. When I tried to run I was haunted by the thoughts of my brother’s death and flashbacks to the night he died. It was all too much for me. I tried to shut it all out in an attempt to avoid the pain and stopped running altogether.
My everyday life was affected in more ways than one. In cross country and track, the sharp blare emitted from the starting gun, used to signal the start of a race, was a major trigger for me. The explosive blow of the starting gun amidst the silence of the anxious athletes and the crowd resembled that of the rifle I heard in the middle of the night. I emotionally and physically could not help but associate one with the other. When hearing the sound of the starting pistol, my heart rate would skyrocket and I would become overwhelmed with intense flashbacks that brought along feelings of danger and panic.
I knew that healing would come with time, but I did not know how long “time” actually meant.
With patience I was finally starting to feel like myself again and felt ready to get back to doing what I loved.
I stopped running for a total of 6 months and in those 6 months I changed a lot both physically and mentally: I gained weight, my body developed, and I had a new perspective on life. With patience I was finally starting to feel like myself again and felt ready to get back to doing what I loved.
Ultimately, I knew that in order to get back to where I was, I had to help myself. I tried being proactive by putting myself in uncomfortable and difficult situations. I sought professional help and participated in exposure therapy where I was forced to listen to the sound of a gunshot in a safe space. Along with this, I started running again, which posed the greatest challenge of them all. I felt like a completely different person, and nothing came as easy or naturally as it once had in high school.
There have been so many times when I have wanted to quit. The peak of this came during my first race back in over a year. It was winter track and I was excited to dawn the stripes for the first time, but I was not fully confident in where I was at mentally or physically. Nonetheless, I stepped onto the track to race, and at the sound of the gun, sprinted to the front of the pack— fearless— but by the end of the race I was second to last while trying to hold back a stream of tears. I was humiliated by my performance and time, and knew it was not a reflection of the shape I was in nor what I was capable of.
That day was probably the second worst day of my life and looking back on it I still get upset. However, I’ve learned that achieving your personal best in life does not necessarily mean running your personal best on the track. That day, I conquered my fears, and throughout this journey I have refused to give up and be complacent. I still have a long way to go, and with COVID there are a lot of unknowns as to when I’ll get the opportunity to race again, but I’m excited about the future.
Looking at the past, I have tried to learn and grow from it to become a better person and not only run faster but also run with gratitude, dignity, and grace to achieve both my personal best on the track and in life.