Part 4 - Work Hard and Run Fast
I needed an escape from home, and working was the perfect excuse. At thirteen, I began babysitting for a family with a one-year-old and an infant. During my second year with the family, they welcomed another child, bringing the number of children I cared for to three, in addition to my brother, who was born around that time. For five years I stayed with them from Friday evening until Sunday afternoon, and for four of those years, I also stayed with them throughout spring, summer and winter breaks. We spent spring and winter breaks on Amelia Island in Florida and summer breaks on a peaceful lake in northern Wisconsin. Taking care of the children, cooking, and cleaning never bothered me, although I knew I was missing out on my childhood. As long as I didn’t have to be home, surrounded by the constant fighting and unbearable stress, I was happy to take on the responsibilities.
Having an escape from home was priceless to me, and whether I got paid hardly mattered. If my memory serves me right, I earned about $50 for a weekend and roughly $500 for an entire summer. Babysitting was my first job, but by the time I turned sixteen, I was juggling several more. I worked as a server at a banquet hall on some weeknights, managed the front desk at a fitness center from 4:30 to 7:30 in the mornings, sold women’s apparel at Nordstrom after school and on Sundays after babysitting, and worked the cash register at Toys R Us in the evenings. Somehow, I managed to balance all of this while attending school, keeping up with chores, helping care for my brother and completing homework. My parents didn’t know, but I often stayed up well past midnight to study and finish my schoolwork. Looking back, I realize just how much responsibility I had taken on at an age when all my friends were simply enjoying their teenage years.
Going out with friends or participating in school activities always seemed like something meant for someone else, not me. That changed one day when a classmate and I needed to work together on a school project. With my incredibly busy schedule, the only time we could find to meet happened to be during her seven-mile cross-country practice run. With no other options, I decided to join her so we could discuss our assignment along the way. What I didn’t know at the time was that she was the school’s top cross-country runner. For the entire seven miles, I kept pace with her, running by her side while we talked about our project. When we returned to school, the coach was so impressed that he convinced me to join the cross-country and track teams.
Knowing my parents would not approve, despite the possibility of earning a scholarship, I added cross-country and track to my already overwhelming schedule. As immigrants caught up in the daily struggle to survive, there were many things my parents simply didn’t understand. Looking back, I can recognize how much of their energy went toward keeping our family afloat. Running initially became an outlet for the stress I carried. It gave me something that was my own, a place to release the pressure of everyday life. But that began to change when my coach recognized my potential to become one of the best runners. He wanted me to understand the opportunities ahead of me, but the pressure that came with those possibilities quickly became overwhelming. I didn’t have proper running shoes, enough time to train, or the support I needed to succeed.
What had once been my escape gradually became another source of stress I could barely manage. Before every meet, the anxiety would make me physically sick for hours. Even the excitement of winning races and setting school records only added to the pressure and my deterioration. Eventually, I did tell my mother about my involvement in sports when I invited her to an important awards ceremony. She was impressed by what I had accomplished and tried to convince my father to support this new possibility for me, but unfortunately, he didn’t. He always believed there was only one path to success: focusing on schoolwork and working hard.
In time, I made the difficult decision to quit. The physical injuries caused by improper footwear, the overwhelming stress, and the demands of competing without adequate training and support, had completely worn me down. The experience left a lasting impression. Even today, watching sports can trigger an overwhelming physical stress response, reminding me of how deeply that period of my life affected me.
All these years, I believed this reaction came from feeling the pressure, stress and disappointment experienced by the athletes I was watching. But as I write these words, I’m beginning to recognize something I hadn’t fully understood before. Perhaps it isn’t their stress I’m feeling after all, but the echoes of my own experiences with sports.
I spent so much of my childhood running—from conflict, from stress, and toward anything that offered a sense of freedom. Only now do I understand that sometimes healing begins when we recognize that strength isn’t always about pushing harder, achieving more, or enduring everything. Sometimes, true strength is knowing when to let go and allowing ourselves the compassion we needed all along.
