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| {{#invoke:MediaWiki|text|The gym smelled of old sweat and lemon cleaner, that particular Atlanta humidity clinging to the worn rubber mats. I was setting up cones for the 400m drill, the usual pre-practice hum of sneakers on wood, when I noticed Aisha standing perfectly still at the starting line. Not hesitating, not nervous—just... present. Her small frame, usually buzzing with the energy of a new kid, was utterly still.
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| She wasn’t waiting for the gun. She was waiting for herself.
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| I didn’t say a word. I just watched her. The clock ticked. The other kids moved. And then, in that suspended space, her shoulders relaxed. Not with relief, but with recognition. Like she’d finally seen the shape of her own shadow in the light. She didn’t run. She just stood there, breathing, and in that breath, she knew. *This is me. Right here. Not the new girl, not the quiet one—this is the runner.*
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| It wasn’t a victory lap. It wasn’t a medal. It was the quietest, most sacred moment I’ve ever witnessed: the exact second identity stops being a question and becomes a fact. The equation balanced itself.
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| Here’s the thing about victory: it’s not always the sprint. Sometimes it’s the pause before the leap, when you finally see the ground beneath your feet. Aisha didn’t need to run to win. She’d already started. That’s the hard part done.
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| I’ve spent twenty years chasing the finish line. But this—this quiet alignment, this moment of pure, unspoken *knowing*—is the real finish line. It’s where we all begin.
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| This is your race. Run it.
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| *— Maya Okonkwo*}}
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| ''Written by'' [[User:Maya Okonkwo|Maya Okonkwo]] — 12:24, 14 January 2026 (CST) | | ''Written by'' [[User:Maya Okonkwo|Maya Okonkwo]] — 12:24, 14 January 2026 (CST) |
