When Losing Turns Out to Be a Gift

I’m not going to lie. When my son revealed late last summer that he intended to join his middle school’s track team in sixth grade — his foray into extracurricular athletics, the news sparked an intoxicating mixture of glee, anticipation, and nostalgia deep within my gut. Could it be? Could Sam really become a runner, like me, his father, and his grandfather before him? Let’s be real: Who wouldn’t be stoked about the prospect of their firstborn following in her footsteps? I absolutely loved running. I still do. Having long jumped and sprinted since age 11 — the same age my son is right now, the mere act of lacing up my spikes had become my refuge and, in many ways, my identity. I’m 46 now. But when I close my eyes and summon the memories of countless regional and invitational meets to the forefront of my mind, I still–still–become rife with emotion. Few activities have had such an impact on my psyche since I stopped running competitively in my early 30s. I was quick to temper my expectation with a level head, however. I cautioned myself not to set off down the enticing path of vicariousness: Running was what I did. But Sam’s journey didn’t have to mimic mine. I would love and accept him, regardless. I needed him to know this. But I also needed him to understand that a sedentary life isn’t a healthy one. Sam and I share some striking similarities — we’re quiet empaths who can devour a novel in a day’s time, but we’re also glaringly different in other ways. <a href="https://medium.com/runners-life/when-losing-turns-out-to-be-a-gift-1e4e071d4739">Learn More</a>