It was the first month of freshman year. I was already in the age-old mindset that the more extracurriculars I joined, the better chances I had to get into college. So I joined them all. WEB Dubois, Red Cross, French Club, the list goes on. I volunteered, taught at my church on weekends, but my standards told me to aim higher. Do something else… That’s when I joined the track team. Not because I had some insatiable desire to compete, or loved putting my legs through torture.

I joined solely to be able to write “Track and Field” in the extracurricular column on for college applications.

It’s hard to explain, the moments after it was all over. It was like I was in some sort of scary trance. When I look back, it feels like just a constant repeat of school, painful workouts, stretching, and sore mornings. During my first year, I was horrible. The coaches barely noticed me, I lagged behind in workouts, and it made me angry. I knew I was competitive and determined, but the sport brought those traits to a whole new level.

I ran in the snow, I ran in the rain, I ran the stairs when the track was closed, I ran when my body screamed “YOU’LL DIE!!!!!!” I just remember a vicious cycle of training and getting angry and training and getting angry and then crying and training some more. I wanted to BE somebody. I didn’t want to waste my time out in 10-degree weather for a subpar time. I wanted to be good. I wanted to be the best.

And I think the insane thing about all of this is that this is what led me to love the sport. All the pushing and beating myself up and the pain shaped me into somebody I never imagined becoming. It was somebody determined and hardworking, and that made me happy.

Track had its bad moments, too. A lot of them, actually. I cried when I wasn’t taken to an invitational my sophomore year, when the seniors ran better times than me, when a meet went poorly, remembering all the practices built up to that one moment. And I bled… a lot. Spiking myself, tripping on a hurdle, pressing my fingers so hard into the tough, hard turf as my teammates and I yelled the number of pushups we were on.

But nothing hurt more than when the coaches would give my event to other athletes.

The “you’re not good enough” pill was damn hard to swallow, and it forced me back into that vicious cycle. It reminds you that track is unique. It’s a weird, mutated team sport unlike most. Nobody’s spot is guaranteed, and no matter how much you love your team, you’re competing against all your friends at all times.

But when track was good, God was it good.

I remember setting school records, winning medals, and getting to celebrate my successes with my best friend. You stand at the starting line, nervous as hell, hearing the gun BANG for the heats in front of you and fidgeting with your sweaty palms.

Then when the announcer says your name, you hear your friends scream and cheer and you can’t help but smile. You stand on the bleachers, cheering for your teammates all season long until they break the national record, and the best feeling in the world comes over you. You sit on the bus at 12 a.m. after a meet with 15 other phenomenal athletes, sweaty and tired but knowing that every feeling you have is shared with every person on that bus.

You run a race and do the best you’ve ever done, and that sense of it’s finally paying off washes over you. You win a medal, hear your name over the speakers and see your coaches smile. You go to school, actually excited to run. You feel the track underneath you when you jump or sprint or fall. You feel at home. You feel like you belong. These are the moments that make you fall in love with something so painful. These are the moments that kept me going for 4 years.

Now, I’m here, staring at the track I used to live, breathe, and bleed for. I can see athletes going through the warm-ups I used to go through and running the workouts I used to dread. I can’t help but feel ashamed that I stopped, and I remember the chances I had to run at other schools, the times I promised myself I’d never quit it.

It’s a part of you… It is you.

To all the retired track and fielders out there, the ones that still visit their coaches, that still follow MileSplit on Twitter, that still feel that excitement just by seeing a pair of blocks, it’s OK to let it go.

I miss it, all of it. The good, the bad, and yes, even the shin splints. I could do club, yeah, but I can’t imagine myself as the athlete I once was. I can’t remember why I woke up at 5 a.m. or why I would stay at meets for 17 hours. Well, I do know why, but I can’t feel it anymore. That level of dedication and passion feels… distant, and that’s OK. We know what hard work and real success feel like. We remember all the meets and all the PR’s, and that’s enough. There’s no need to feel sad that it’s gone because it’s still here. It has become a part of you, and it stays with you forever.