Go at your own pace.

I took this picture of my oldest son over the summer, and I was so proud of it. It’s a good shot—a lucky shot—and the result of snapping a bunch of pics in a row.

But when I looked at it later, I realized the other swimmers in this shot are going back the other way, towards the other end of the pool. My son is trailing behind in this race, not winning. So we had a laugh about it later. He didn’t take it personally because he knows he’s a valuable part of the team.

Sometimes he wins, sometimes he doesn't. Winning is the goal, of course. But it's not the only goal.

Dillon’s swim coach is a high school math teacher and knows numbers in a way that I’ll never know them. He knows every swimmer’s time and he places them in races strategically. He can generally predict the results of each race before it starts.

At the end of the summer swim season, the coach talked about how each swimmer inspires the other. Those in the lead motivate teammates to swim faster, and those trailing behind push the ones in the lead.

The only thing the swim coach really cares about is the swimmer’s individual time. “If you get to the end of the season and your times are better than when you started, then you did what you came here to do." 

I’ve been turning this story, this idea, over in my mind for months, even before the Olympic games raised questions (how far does one push themselves to win a medal?) and sparked spirited conversations about mental health and what it means to be a part of a team. 

And, I’m carrying this thought into fall as I'm trying to find a rhythm, still reaching for goals at midlife, and raising an elementary school, a middle school, and a high school child during a pandemic.

So often I feel like I’m running out of time. That I can’t move fast enough, slowed down by unexpected obstacles or my own overwhelm and fatigue. And then I ask myself, am I in a race? Who exactly am I racing against? What am I trying to prove? 

It feels good to be acknowledged for my accomplishments. There’s nothing wrong with being competitive and striving to be the best, to win.

But when I slow down, calm down and breathe, I remember that I’m inherently worthy. The race is more meaningful when I allow myself to be motivated and inspired by others, and when I trust that no matter where I fall in the lineup, I’m inspiring someone else.

I look at the photo of my son differently now, and I hear the words—my own inner voice—saying: Go at your own pace.

Before you end this week and move on to the next, take some time to acknowledge how far you've come. I'm cheering you on, always.