…are you ready for the race?

From a young age, I was extremely sensitive.

It didn’t take long for innate naivety to slowly dissolve along with the tears on my cheek.

It didn’t take long for me to realise that this was a race.

They called me the lucky one. They said I was gifted.

When did the epiphany hit me?

Maybe it was the moment my mother told me I had to finish learning the times tables before

the other children in my class.

Maybe it was the moment my father told me the egregious price they had been paying for

my piano lessons.

Maybe it was the moment my teacher told me that my handwriting was far neater than the

other children’s.

Maybe it was the moment my prep friend’s mother called me intelligent, and told her to be

hardworking like me.

In hindsight, it was impossible for five-year-old me not to notice.

When everyone measured every inch of distance between me and the crowd behind me—or

the crowd in front of me.

When every wrong note played on the piano ricocheted back at me as a snark or insult.

When I began becoming consumed by the pride;

A feeling that might as well have been falling, but felt too much like flying.

So I kept running.

Running with all my might.

Running with the expectations of my parents on my back.

Running with the ephemeral validation from my teachers and peers at my heel—a validation

that shifted into disappointment when I slowed down.

Running with the vision of the crowd ahead of me. A vision that made me trip on the tracks,

made my legs feel stoned in place. A vision that read:

“She’s two grades ahead of you in piano.”

“Distinction? Another child in your class received High Distinction.”

“They were selected for the competition team instead of you.”

“I thought you were better.”

Blisters on my heel, a metallic taste in my mouth. Still, I lose my breath regurgitating:

“You’ve never done this badly before.”

“You have to get into the competition team.”

“You have to do well in this test, it’s your saving grace.”

“You’re not good enough.”

“You’re smart, no?”

“No.”

Slowly, I become nothing but an embodiment of the feeling. I figured it out. Falling only feels

like flying until all your bones crush.

There is no end to this race.

Perennially, there is a crowd behind me, and a crowd in front of me.

And still I stay, adamantly chasing the unchasable.

Attempting to win the unwinnable.

Until none of the milestones matter, none of the achievements shine, none of the euphoria

lasts.

Because I made it an obligation to get here.

Because no one wins.

I keep running.

Carrying the weight of the medals, the academic awards, the piano certificates, the

impressive report scores.

But I also carry this realisation.

It pains me, it destroys me, yet it fuels me.

I keep running. But I hold onto one grudge.

I wish I could go back in time and sit five-year-old me down, pat her on the head, wipe the

tears from her cheek and take a Polaroid in my mind of her naive smile.

I would tell her it’s okay if she ever wanted to stop for a break.

I would tell her I would be proud of her, no matter what she could and couldn’t achieve.

I would tell her that she’s hardworking, that she’s smart, that she’s enough.

—I would tell her, that I love her.

It is then that I would ask her,

“Are you,

…ready for the race?”