It was June 1980.  I remember it clearly as day.  It was Sports Day at Alderson Elementary School in Coquitlam, British Columbia, Canada.

Our Little School went from Kindergarten to Grade 2.  I was one of the big grade 2 kids.  I wearing my #1 favourite outfit. I was so excited that I could hardly listen to the instructions.

The teacher had all the Grade 2 students bunched up.  Seven year-old eyes were wandering all around as the teacher quickly explained the concept of pacing yourself.

“Blah, blah, blah, don’t run too fast at the beginning, blah blah blah, or you’ll get too tired…”

I wasn’t paying attention.

I already knew that I was definitely the fastest girl in our school. (Maybe even faster than all the boys. Although Stephane was pretty fast too so maybe not.)  At lunchtime we would play either “Girls Chase the Boys” or “Boys Chase the Girls”.  I couldn’t remember the last time I got caught and I managed to catch pretty much whichever boy I chose.

Thinking back, I realize that maybe I didn’t get the point of the game. That happens a lot with me because I’m very competitive. I mean…that same year, while I was in Grade 2, I couldn’t believe that my ballet teacher wasn’t promoting me to the next level right away because I was the fastest backwards skipper in class every time!

“Ready, set, go!”  And we started off.

It was pretty annoying that a whole bunch of kids were ahead of me in the herd and we were constrained to the sidewalk.  I dodged my way past them as quickly as I could, managing to get to the front of the pack about an eighth of the way through the route.

I glanced back, proud of myself for being first. 

I decided to spread the gap and turn on full speed ahead. I was feeling good. Really good. My hair was whipping backwards in the wind.

My Mom and Dad were at the end line with the other parents who had arranged to miss work and watch Sports Day.  I wanted to sail through the finish line first, ahead of all the other kids, so my parents would see how fast I was. I wanted them to see how spectacular I was at lunchtime every day, sprinting on the field.

But suddenly I stopped feeling so good. My legs started to feel heavy and they mutinied under my instructions to sprint. My throat was burning and I tasted blood.

I couldn’t sprint anymore.  I couldn’t run.  I couldn’t even jog.

As I walked, every single other student passed me one by one.

I was last.

As I turned the final corner I saw my parents, the only ones left waiting.  My eyes filled with tears as I started running again.

I ran into their outstretched arms and burst into tears. 

I pointed across the schoolyard, trying to tell them that I was first for a whole section of the race.  I tried to tell them that I had gone too fast and couldn’t keep running but I started hyperventilating because I was so upset.

I felt so embarrassed.

I felt so foolish.

I felt so ashamed of coming last in the race.

But in that moment of defeat, I could see the compassion in my Dad and Mom’s eyes as they consoled me and tried to find the words to make everything better.

I don’t remember what happened after that.  Most likely my parents gave me a good pep talk about enjoying the rest of sports day. They might have even teased me about running like a sprinter in a long distance race.

As I look back on that race now, I feel compassion for that fiercely competitive seven year old, because I can still feel the disappointment from that race.  It was a very significant moment to me.

And, most importantly, I learned that even in the midst of our greatest failures, we will be loved, consoled and supported and will rise up to fight another battle.

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