I’ve spent several hours this spring watching athletes compete on the track. From the bleachers, I’ve cheered as sprinters exploded out of the blocks, as distance runners settled into their rhythm, and as relay teams executed those nerve-wracking handoffs with precision and trust. I’ve seen triumphs and tears, personal records and near-misses—but more than anything, I’ve seen life unfolding in laps. Because the more time I spend near the track, the more I realize: it’s not just a place for competition. It’s a place of quiet metaphor. The discipline, the setbacks, the pacing, the perseverance—it all mirrors the very rhythms of our journey through life.

Every runner knows the nerves at the starting line. Knees bent, heart racing, eyes fixed straight ahead. You train and stretch and visualize the race, but still—those first few seconds feel like jumping into the unknown. That’s life, isn’t it? We plan. We prepare. We pray. But beginnings are always a little shaky, and no matter how seasoned we are, each new chapter asks us to leap in faith.

The straightaways are sweet. Momentum kicks in, and for a few fleeting moments, everything clicks. Breathing feels easy. Stride feels strong. We wish life were always like that—smooth, straightforward, simple. But just like the track, it curves. And those curves are where the race is often won or lost.

In life, the curves come in the form of heartbreak, change, waiting, and uncertainty. They test our endurance. They call for grit when we’d rather give up. They ask us to stay in our lane and trust the process, even when we can’t see what’s ahead. On the curve, it’s not about speed. It’s about staying grounded, driving forward, and remembering that the straightaway will come again.

There are relays too. Passes that have to be clean. Timed just right. Track teaches us that we can’t run every race alone. There are moments when we carry the baton, and moments when we hand it off. Family, friendships, faith—they’re all part of the relay. And the handoffs? They matter. How we show up for each other in transitions can make all the difference.

Sometimes we fall. Sometimes we false start. Sometimes we finish last. And still—we show up for the next race. Because the truth is, not every win comes with a medal. Sometimes it’s just the quiet victory of showing up when we don’t feel like it. Of getting back up. Of crossing the line, even if we’re the last one in.

Track reminds me that progress isn’t always flashy. It’s often quiet. Painful. Repetitive. But over time, those laps add up. Muscles build. Resolve strengthens. Confidence grows. And the girl who once couldn’t make it through a mile finds herself sprinting toward something she never thought possible.

As the season winds down and the final meets are run, I’ll carry these quiet lessons with me. I’ll remember the grit in the curves, the grace in the handoffs, the hope in every fresh start. Life, much like the track, isn’t won in one straight sprint—it’s built lap by lap, with breathless effort and quiet resolve. And maybe that’s the most beautiful part: we don’t have to finish first to finish well.

We just have to keep running.