It's not my race

I stood at Westpoint Military Base as a man with a whistle ordered the kids to get in line. With a bellowing voice, he succinctly told them to line up from oldest to youngest, which meant my daughter was near the back. When her group finally came into view, I noticed almost everyone was wearing regular swimming goggles, leaning forward in their triathlon suits, and staring at the lake with the precision of a marksman, waiting for the whistle to blow. My daughter stood straight up in her tankini, fogging up her snorkeling goggles and playing with her foot in the sand. At eight years old, this was her first race, and she had chosen to do it of her own volition.   

The race's outcome was utterly unknown, but already, my daughter was a hero to me. At her age, I would have never dared compete in an event like that. When I was little, I avoided all competition because I was raised in a household where if you are not first, you’re last, and that kind of pressure, though sometimes pushing me to give my one thousand percent, is also debilitating.

The kids lined up in groups of three or four at a time, waiting for a female cadet to give them the go-ahead, and as I watched them, my heart rate shot up as if I were the one waiting to start. As boys and girls entered the water, parents cheered. Some were enthusiastic, while others… not so much. I had seen one mother talking to her son before the race began, and by the sound of their pep talk, they were in it to win it. When he was in the water, I heard her shout, “You are taking too wide a turn. The buoy is further to your left!” On the other hand, my husband hooted and hollered encouraging phrases like “You can do it!” and “Go, Eva!” because he is the best cheerleader I know. Not me. I kept my mouth shut, clapped, and watched in anticipation, worried that anything I said might put pressure on my baby girl. 

The lake water, a mirror when we arrived, was now alive as a dozen children swam across it. Competitive skinny arms and legs wailed in which and every direction, making it hard to spot my daughter’s swim cap. I finally picked her out of the crowd because she was not keeping up with the others. She was far behind, doing the breaststroke. A moment later, she stopped mid-course, and the lifeguard swam to her with his red rescue tube.

I pinched my husband's arm, worried about what would happen next. I knew that if it had been my eight-year-old self out there, I would have quit the race at the first sign of unmet expectations. I would have withdrawn early enough not to be counted as a participant and then blamed my lack of success on any external force- faulty equipment, maybe, while secretly beating myself up over not being good enough. That’s the problem with the “if you’re not first, you’re last” mentality. There is so much riding on results that there is no room to enjoy the process. 

At forty-two, I have finally broken free from that mindset. But often, I see my young self in my daughter and assume she thinks the same way I did at her age. “Like mother, like daughter’ they say, and since she has my eyes, my hair, and sometimes my temperament, I assume she might also have my inner monologue. If I used to set impossibly high expectations and standards for myself without giving myself the grace to learn, she might, too. I was convinced she would stop the race and blame the goggles, or the weather, or the sky… and as I imagined the lifeguard swimming her to shore, I began to think about how to talk her through this moment- this moment I was assuming she’d categorize as a failure.

I remember wanting to speak to her in a way that would allow her to learn the lesson that has taken me forty-two years to learn- experience is everything, and loving the journey is all that matters. But to my complete surprise, after a couple of minutes, Eva began to swim again. Then she stopped (again) and took one more break with the lifeguard and his buoy before swimming to the shoreline and wading through lilypads and algae while people clapped and cheered.

I was expecting her to come out of the water in a bad mood, frustrated that all the other kids were long gone, but she wasn’t cranky or upset or frustrated. She just moved at her own pace, got on her bike, and off she went as other kids were already returning from their mile ride. 

I hollered, “I love you, baby,” as she pedaled down the long road, and my voice cracked at the thought of her struggling through the race alone. It was then that I stopped living in the moment and let my memories take me back to moments in my childhood when I struggled and felt alone. Times when I got bullied by my older brother, and instead of having someone tell me otherwise, I took his words as fact and repeated his abusive opinion that I was not good enough, ensuring it sunk in deep. My mind returned to when I was nowhere near meeting expectations, and no one was there to correct my self-loathing talk. Times when I faced challenges and didn't have the confidence to know that my best was enough; after all, there was always so much riding on the result of my effort.

Eva returned from the bike ride looking tired. The August heat had peaked; temperature aside, triathlons are intense, and she was eight years old! I cheered her on as she dropped off her bike and started running. She was the only kid left on the course. Some kids were already wearing their medals, holding their parent’s hands, and returning to their cars.

I was so caught up in reliving my past that I began to fret over what I perceived as my daughter's current reality. I thought of her out on that trail, running all alone, and in my mind, I rehearsed phrases to console her once she crossed the finish line- words I wished I had heard when I was her age. You will never be alone in your fight. You are worth your effort, and I will be with you every step of the way to remind you of how amazing you are. I thought she needed to hear that.

Then, struck by the most compassionate and nurturing love, the one I sometimes feel cheated out of, I began to run with her. What better way of letting her know she is not alone than running by her side every step of the way?! I gave my husband my purse and ran up to catch her. As I got closer, I said the words I had been craving my whole life, “I’m with you. You are not alone.”

“What are you doing?” My daughter was not pleased. “This isn’t your race, Mami!” she said as she waved me away in frustration and, perhaps, embarrassment. I stopped running immediately, one half of me broken-hearted and the other half perplexed. What just happened? It took a second to sink in, but I knew she was right. This moment, this race, was not my race. It was hers. She is not living my life; she is living hers, and I don’t need to shelter her from my demons because they don't haunt her.

Not getting caught up in the norms and the paradigms of my past is hard work. I want to help my daughter navigate the road I traveled so that she can escape the speed bumps, potholes, and devastating accidents that marked me. It’s as if I want her to live her life with my hindsight, and while that might work sometimes, it won’t correct my pain, nor will it save her from feeling her own. 

I’m slowly realizing that my daughter has her road to travel, and more likely than not, it looks nothing like mine. So, why prepare her for a life that is not hers? I need to let go of my experience and give her tools so she may travel any road- not mine, not anyone else's, just hers. After all, hers is not my race to run.