It’s 6:30 in the morning. I’m running through a neighborhood, flanked by my teammates. The only light comes from the glow of someone’s phone. It’s cold, and I’m tired. 6 a.m. has never been a great time to wake up, let alone run. I should be sleeping, I think to myself. But the morning is quiet. Peaceful. And I can’t stop smiling, even as we veer off the street and begin the painful climb up what feels like a near-vertical hill. At Monta Vista Cross Country, we call this early-morning excursion the Dawn Patrol.

As we hike up the hill, the morning sky turns a deep blue color, brightening with every step. I’m out of breath, and my legs are heavy. All around me, shoes scrape against the dirt trail. Halfway up, I begin to slow down. The climb feels endless. But I resist the urge to walk. My breath is visible. The sky is growing purple. I grit my teeth and keep running. My teammates do the same. Before long, we reach the peak of the hill. The rising sun paints the sky orange.

Waking up at six in the morning to run 13 miles was not what I saw myself doing two years ago. Instead, I pictured myself playing tennis under the midday sun, fighting down to the wire to win a point while my parents cheered. At the time, running wasn’t even something I enjoyed. It was just another way for me to train for tennis. Later events in my tennis career changed this.

Tennis is a one-on-one sport. The only way to succeed in tennis is to beat your opponent. I struggled with the mindset of “I need to be the best to prove myself” for a long time, and each defeat chipped away my self-confidence. However, cross country presented a different philosophy: a new way forward.

Rather than battling for top spots or vying to be the fastest, everyone seemed simply to enjoy themselves. There was a strong sense of camaraderie and support. With no pressure to outrun anyone else, for the first time, I wasn’t measured against others — only myself.

The Dawn Patrol route is one we run often throughout the season. Even now, every time I reach the halfway point of the incline, the thought of giving up and walking crosses my mind. However, I’ve learned to fight that urge — to breathe, focus on the scenery and keep running. The view from the top of the hill is well worth the climb.  

Cross country redefined running in my eyes. Inspired to continue this spring, I joined the track and field team. Despite being a long-distance runner, I’ve always been drawn to sprinting. I chose to put my cross-country stamina to the test in a one-lap all-out sprint: the 400-meter dash.

The 400 is a brutal race, requiring speed in the first half and endurance in the second — and not just physical endurance. The final quarter of the 400 is the ultimate test of will. During the last 100 meters, it feels as if everything is shutting down — your lungs burning and your legs dying. When your body is ready to give up, it becomes a mental battle. 

I’ll never forget my first 400 race — one of the most humbling experiences of my life. The first half was manageable. But by 200 meters, fatigue hit hard. My legs gave out right before the end. I collapsed from exhaustion, stood up, fell again and practically crawled over the finish line. After that first race, scraped up and humiliated, I resolved to conquer the event, promising myself I’d come back stronger. I stuck with the 400 and, over the course of the season, dropped my time from sixty-six seconds to fifty-six.

While no amount of training can minimize the pain of the final 100, the run is absolutely worth it. Crossing the finish line is the most amazing feeling. First, there’s the relief of being done. Then comes the pride of having finished in the first place. After every 400, I feel like I’m on top of the world. 

I’m not the fastest and don’t always win my races. But, if running’s taught me anything, it’s that these things aren’t important. What matters instead is grinding all the way up the Dawn Patrol hill, or pushing to the end of a 400, even when everything is screaming in pain. 

Regardless of my placement, every race feels like a victory because I push myself to the limit. In doing so, I prove to myself that I have the power to persist. As a runner, I don’t need to win to succeed. All I have to do is persevere. All I have to do is keep moving forward, one step at a time.