The worst feeling that any runner can have is getting on the starting line and knowing that you’ve already lost. Although you are confident in the countless hours of training and preparation you have put in to equip yourself for racing, doubt looms and sweeps all this hard work away like it is all nothing. Then, you unintentionally ask yourself the most challenging question right before the gun goes off: “What if I’m not good enough?”

That’s what racing with anxiety sounds like. 

I never thought my anxiety would get so extreme that it would affect me in competition. It had always been a lingering, foreboding shadow that followed me around at all times. No matter how frequently the negative thoughts and the constant fears infiltrated my mind, I was always able to subside them. I could push these thoughts away because they only existed in my head — their lack of effect on my physical body allowed me to pretend that they were imaginary figments of some dark corner of my brain. That was all until they became somatic.  

Last winter, I suffered from a terrifying public anxiety attack. I’m not ashamed to talk about it, as no one else should be. I was hyperventilating for 30 minutes, trying to catch just one singular breath, but they all came out choppy. I couldn’t think or see straight, as if I’d been drugged, and all I wanted was to regain control of my mind. It left me with a pit in my stomach that I’m not sure I had ever felt before, one that had lasting repercussions. 

I noticed its effects on my running as soon as the following week. It was right before Christmas break, and I had to leave campus a few days early to go to my mom’s wedding in Colorado. Because I was leaving early, I had to do our second workout of the week alone. I remember that the workout was 12 x 400 at a decent pace with pretty little rest — something that by no means was going to be easy but was something that should have felt manageable. I recall that my body felt great going into the workout but that my mind seemed all over the place and that I had a dull headache. I felt fine at the beginning, but completely fell apart about a third of the way through the workout. My throat started closing up in a way completely different from my asthma, and my legs had a strange numb, detached feeling. It felt like my body was shutting down on me in a way similar to the week before until it eventually just stopped altogether. I immediately went outside and just sat there in the cold, thinking about how mad I was at myself. I knew that whatever was going on wasn’t my fault, but I was so furious at my inability to control it.

While the severity of my anxiety decreased after Christmas break, it undoubtedly affected the rest of my track season. Although I was probably in the best shape I had ever been in and felt great at practice, everything fell apart on race day. Even if I was feeling great before the race and trusted my body after months and months of training, my brain was in disagreement. I felt at a complete loss of control. Before this, the fact that running was a predominantly mental sport filled me with confidence; however, this idea discouraged me last year. Although I had a great support system of teammates and coaches that believed in me and knew I was capable of success, the pattern of my underperformance dug me into a pit of doubt that seemed unshakable.  

But there is no way that I would ever let these thoughts win. Since the end of our last track season, I have created a better relationship with myself both inside and outside of running. I no longer blame myself when things go wrong. I know that I have great potential. I can feel it. I just have to do the right things and be patient. Going into what is potentially my last year of collegiate running, I will trust myself and believe that everything that I know I’m capable of is possible. One of my favorite quotes is a Buddhist saying, “The arrow that hits the bulls-eye is a result of 100 misses.” When applied to running, this quote can be a reminder to push forward towards your goals no matter the setbacks or challenges. I think I’m almost there.