Once I stopped telling myself I wasn’t a runner and started telling myself I was, I was right.
When I was eight-years-old I ran a mile race. Well actually, to be more accurate, I started a mile race.
There I was at the starting line in my green track suit, my hair up in pigtails that my mom had braided with matching green bows. “I am going to win this,” I thought to myself.
When the starting gun was fired, I took off so fast that I completely lost my breath. I started panicking and had to get picked up by the police officer that was driving behind the entire race. I was brought to the finish line in the back of a police car. I think I threw up somewhere in the middle of all of that too. My eight-year-old ego was not happy.
Read … like … share. ♥