I participated in a race when I was hardly 4 years old. I remember because of two things.
One, this picture of me with two medals around my neck, hands on my hips and a smile-less face.
The second, the story my parents told me. During the race I was ahead of everyone but midway I tripped and hurt my self. My knees bruised and everyone ran past me. The adults expected me to cry and forget what I was in the middle of. And why not? I was hardly a four year old child! But I didn't cry and stood up and began running again and came in first.
I never ran in a race again.
Why?
Well, all I got out of that was a picture worth showing off, pieces of metal that would soon rot, compliments from people and bruised knees.
I think most of life growing up we are expected to run the conventional races for the very same things.
Validation. Insta worthy pictures. Useless tokens of accomplisment.
I'd rather forget the race and wander off track and chase things that won't bruise my knees.
You can keep your validation and I'll discover my own joy and peace.
Of course the four year child me could possibly not fathom this reasoning.
But something clearly didn't make her happy about reaching the finish line first and hearing everyone applaud.
But whatever it is that she felt that never made her run a race again, she was a wise child.
