I felt fatigued after the race. My legs were Jell-O, and I probably had half a granola bar in my throat. Despite running a 5K, I collapsed into the fold-up chair like a marathon runner.
Coach Tate approached, panting and sweating on his tattooed arm. He always seemed threatening, like a bar bouncer or motorbike rider without a helmet. Today, he wore the same Girls on the Run race jersey as us, but it barely covered his biceps.
He gave me a water bottle and a crumpled brown bag with my name on it.
“Good run, Mia,” he remarked, tangling my hair. “You overcame pain. You make me proud.”
I rolled my eyes to seem calm. It meant something.
I heard him speak to a race volunteer behind me a few minutes later while searching the bag for the cookie I knew he placed in there.
He responded, “I don’t care what her file says.” “That girl must fight. I see that whenever she questions herself yet continues going.”
I froze.
His file was familiar to me.
Its contents were forbidden from leaving the workplace.
His next statement caused my chest to tighten, preventing me from sharing what transpired in the final mile with my mom.
Coach Tate referenced a file, not a stack of running numbers or push-ups. It was more intimate and only a few knew about. I was diagnosed with dyslexia a year earlier, and school became a mountain I couldn’t scale. Writing my name on the board made my hands quiver, reading assignments was hard, and examinations were nightmares. The guidance counselor recorded my problems, tears, and meetings on whether to remain in challenging courses or change to something simpler.
That file? It went beyond academics. Mia: Potential Challenges. They worried I couldn’t handle it.
Coach Tate disagreed, however.
“She doesn’t need anyone telling her she can’t,” he told the volunteer. Though his voice lowered, I tried to hear every word. Her strength defies any description. You watch. Let her prove them wrong.”
Embarrassment and the fact that no one had ever mentioned me like way caused my cheeks to heat. Like I was more than my errors and problems. Like I might be something.
I kept wondering why Coach Tate had my file. Why did he seem so convinced about me while everyone else—including me—didn’t?
After the race, I avoided him. I took my medal (which seemed heavier than normal) and grumbled about finding my mom. While reading through her phone near the parking lot, she was unaware of my inner turmoil.
“Hey, champ!” extending out her arms for an embrace. How went it?
“Fine,” I shrugged, putting the medal in my bag. I couldn’t look at her. Not yet.
Mum raised an eyebrow. “Fine? Only that? You trained for months.”
I kicked a stone and repeated, “It was fine.” Then quietly: “I almost quit halfway through.”
Her expression relaxed. “Oh, sweetie. Did anything happen?
Shaking my head swiftly. I wouldn’t tell her. Upon discovering the truth, she would begin to doubt Coach Tate and his knowledge of my file. What if she knew he saw it? She would fail. Mom resented how folks treated me differently because of dyslexia. She claimed “pity” was poison.
So I faked a grin. “Nah. Just tired.”
The following practice was unpleasant. I kept looking at Coach Tate, wondering whether he would mention the talk I overheard or my file. He behaved normally. Really too typical. He laughed with the girls, encouraged us throughout exercises, and distributed refreshments normally.
Until practice ends.
I was told to stay back while we stretched in the dying light. My stomach twisted. Would he confront me about eavesdropping? How could he know so much about me?
Instead, he sat on the grass next me with a little notepad. He casually said, “Ever heard of journaling?”
“Nope,” I said suspiciously. “For poets or something?”
He chuckled. “No guarantee. Sometimes for combatants. For those who need to disentangle their thoughts.”
I frowned. What does it have to do with me?
He opened the notepad to a sloppy handwritten page. This is mine. I write when life becomes overwhelming. Good days, difficult days, lessons learned—you name it. Gives me perspective.”
I gazed at the handwritten words. They were flawed. Letters were smeared and crossed out. It didn’t matter. He did it anyhow, which was important.
“I’m not good at writing,” I whispered. “It takes forever.”
“That’s okay,” he replied. “No one grades you here. Just try. One phrase daily. Write about your runs, triumphs, and disappointments. Whatever you want.”
Then he gave me the notepad and stood. Start tomorrow. See what happens.”
I first felt journaling was silly. Who willingly writes about feelings? After a week, I understood it was about honesty, not perfection. I wrote about sprinting’s difficulty. About the difficulty of mixing left and right during exercises. Yes, I was angry when others said I couldn’t achieve due to dyslexia.
Slowly, something changed. Writing helped me process jogging and school. When arithmetic problems were tough or reading assignments overwhelmed me, I reminded myself of Coach Tate’s track lesson: Progress isn’t always quick, but it’s progress.
I had the confidence to inquire about my file one evening after practice. We were alone on the field as the sky became orange and pink.
“How did you know my dyslexia?” I shouted.
He rested against the fence. I heard from your mom.”
“What?” Oh, I gasped. “She swore she wouldn’t tell!”
“She didn’t mean to break your trust,” he added softly. “She wanted me to know if you struggled. To assist without assumption.”
Thinking about it, I blinked. Mom trusted Coach Tate to support me, not betray me. And he had. In his rough, unusual style.
“Why care so much?” Softly, I asked.
He rubbed his neck and smiled. “Let’s say I was there. Labels stick, child. They define you if you allow them.”
I continued pushing myself—not just in running, but in everything—for months. I placed in races by season’s conclusion. I raised my hand again in class, even though it took longer to respond.
On the penultimate day of practice, Coach Tate again pulled me aside. He gave me a new notepad.
“You’ve earned this,” he said. “Keep fighting—for yourself, not others.”
Despite tears, I nodded. “Thanks, Coach.”
Coach Tate taught me more than running, I understand now. He taught me to trust in myself despite worldly doubts. Life presents problems, but we select how to react. Despite dyslexia, fear, or failure, we’re stronger.
I dare you to find your own journaling style. Your method to declutter and prioritize. Believe me—it makes all the difference.