Carrying shame
I am standing next to the starting field. I can feel the anticipation in the field and the tension within myself; competition anxiety albeit much less is still present. This spacious dissociation is intentional, it helps reduce stress and signals my unwillingness to be associated with those thriving on competition with others rather than self. Encircled by friends, I sit in a deep squat - more dissociation. My mind starts racing, before my body does.
Within the first kilometers, the track is lined with spectators cheering. Trying to be nice and to hide irritation, even shame, I smile. Midfield. Mediocre. In the world I grew up in, mediocrity never deserved applause. With the ascend, the main group splits, spectators become less and my pulse increases. The high pulse being the main agent drowning out everything that is unnecessary in my movement, my brain becomes quieter, the capacity to reflect or think deeper are reduced in favor of physical effort. As I ascend further, fog begins to creep in, thin at first, then thickening with every step. It is as if the mountain is pulling the thoughts from me, one by one, and hanging them in the air around me. The higher I go, the heavier the fog becomes, swirling with all the things that usually crowd my mind. I can feel the weight lifting, my thoughts no longer stuck inside but suspended outside, in the mist, drifting. The mountain takes them, holds them in the fog, leaving me lighter, freer. With each step, I’m less in my head.
„In the world I grew up in, mediocrity never deserved applause.“
Most of the middle portion I run in solitude, quiet and content in the foggy forest. Every now and then, people interrupt my carefree run with applause or words of encouragement. Each time they trigger another “Why?” in my head. Almost unconsciously, I offer an older gentleman an embarrassed „thank you“. Not too loud, voice trembling. Shortly afterwards, I realize that my eyes are filling with tears. These tears have no external trigger, but come from within. “Why? I don't deserve any applause for my performance,” are the words that end the following, almost impulsive, and frustrated conversation I'm having in my head.
I continued onwards with these thoughts. Every other step seeming to stir a memory or a reflection about shame from deep within unbidden but persistent. Small failures, the sting of being measured and to be found wanting. I think of the years spent defining myself through others’ judgments, trying to shrink or stretch into shapes I thought might fit their expectations. Running here, it strikes me how often I have carried this weight into spaces meant for freedom. Yet here I am, still dragging it along.
There’s an irony in the way I tell myself I’m not competing with others, yet I still define my worth through my position within the field. Every glance at someone ahead of me reinforces the mediocrity I’ve learned to believe my performance represents when I don’t finish first. It isn’t the act of passing or being passed that weighs on me — it’s the imagined judgment of others, the silent confirmation of what I assume they think: that anything less than winning is unremarkable. The dissociation I practice is intentional, a refuge, yet here it stands, a contradiction. The mountain is a sanctuary, but it is also my mirror. The fog around me and within me is not just my thoughts; it’s the shame I haven’t let go, the expectations I still carry, swirling, visible now for what they are.
By the time I cross the finish line, there is no neat resolution. The applause feels like an echo of something distant, another reminder of how uncomfortable I am with this recognition. But perhaps that’s the point—not to escape these thoughts or feelings, but to see them, name them, and soften them with every step. The mountain, the fog, the climb— they are all teachers. And today was another lesson learning, surely not the last though.
