“Be the best version of yourself, of course, but be your best self only for yourself.”

For most if not all of my elementary school years, I had the dubious honor of being the second slowest kid in my grade. Every year on “Field Day” the teachers would line us all up and count down “three… two… one… go!” and I would always lose to everyone but some other slowpoke kid. There were plenty of other things at which I was not talented, of course (for example, I couldn’t whistle) but I was also naturally happy and a voracious reader so none of it bothered me that much.

My lack of running ability persisted until the last year of middle school, when seemingly overnight I was no longer slow and by my freshman year of high school I was the fastest in my grade. The running itself I didn’t care much about yet, but figuring I could stay in shape for the sports I did play, I joined our indoor track team.

I skipped most of the actual meets that year, but somehow I qualified for our district finals in the 55 meter dash, and I remember that race well. I remember it well because suddenly I wanted to win — I did care. There were 7 or 8 of us in the finals, all of them a year or multiple years older than me, all of them in indoor track racing shoes but me, all of them with starting blocks but me. I had on an old pair of sneakers and no starting block. I didn’t know what a starting block was, so I just stayed standing when everyone else crouched down waiting for the starting gun to go off. I didn’t feel pressure or anxiety in that moment. I didn’t feel nervous about the people around me being older than me, which come to think of it would have been very natural for that age. I just ran. That race was incredibly fun. All of these years later I can remember the actual feeling I had of exhilaration while running. The thought “exhilaration by acceleration” pops into my mind. That’s how specific it still feels.

Unfortunately, when you are good at something, others start to care. Which makes you start to care for the wrong reasons. In this case, it meant I felt pressure to win for others. I would soon be winning races with fancy running shoes and starting blocks and on much bigger stages. More notably, the races were all also no longer nearly as much fun. They were terrifying. Your central nervous and apocrine systems go into hyperdrive as you approach the starting gun in individual race sports—and for me, the extra pressure to have to win each race was almost too much to handle. I remember running in a highly acclaimed national invitational meet with some of the best track athletes from across the country and throwing up both before and after the race. I have zero recollection of what place I came in. It could have been first, but it also could have been last. I just remember the anxiety.

Those days have long passed, and the vast majority of running I do now is solo or with a friend. Even when alone, in the mountains of Colorado on remote trails, I do still compete. It’s just that I compete with myself and with no expectations from others. I set time goals which sometimes best me, and at times I get the better of. Either way, what these runs have in common is that there is zero trepidation to them. They are filled almost entirely with peaceful thoughts, majestic images of mountains, nature, and even an occasional “accelerated exhilaration” when I sprint out the finish with a silly half grin-half grimace of pain on my face. Which is my point to all of this. When I care deeply, I am at my best—be it about people, my work, or what I enjoy (like running) in my personal life. Things only get muddled when I let others dictate what it is that should matter to me. Be the best version of yourself, of course, but be your best self only for yourself. Not for others. So you do you, as they say these days; and if you do, you won’t even know what place you are in. Other than it will be a happy one.