FIRST PERSON FIERCE COMPETITION

Her lack of athletic prowess meant she wasn’t much of a contender. But after decades of keeping at it, Jillian Medoff finally realized she’s a winner.

IAM NOT A NATURAL ATHLETE . I’m uncoordinated and graceless. My mind is always elsewhere. Nothing about my body—wide hips, short legs, big boobs—is built for speed or endurance. If pressed, I’ll admit I don’t like to run. Or jump. Or throw a ball. And yet I am the fiercest of competitors.

Being athletic represented something elusive I wanted very much: to fit in. My dad was a salesperson, and because of his job, we moved a lot—17 times in 17 years. Every fall, I was the new girl, with no friends and no way to decode the private jokes. Sports, I decided, were my way in.

In seventh grade, we lived in Florida. When a few girls joined the track team, I joined too. At first it seemed like a brilliant idea. The locker room banter offered camaraderie, and the afternoon practices gave me somewhere to go. I was chubby, and the extra-large unisex uniform—maroon shorts and a numbered jersey—was tight and unflattering, but wearing the same colors as my teammates, who nicknamed me Lucky 13, filled me with a sense of belonging. I especially loved the long bus rides to meets, when we’d sing fight songs to pump ourselves up.

But as soon as we pulled into the parking lot, my excitement would plummet. It was time to face the worst part of being a runner—the running. I had only one event: the second leg of a four-person relay race. All I had to do was grab the baton, sprint a short distance, and hand it off. “Don’t screw up,” I’d warn myself. The gun would blast. In my mind, I’d fly around the bend, sleek and glowing, first at the handoff. But in truth, I’d plod along, yards behind the pack, redfaced and huffing. Invariably, I’d fumble the handoff. Once, I dropped the baton, and when I bent to retrieve it, I kicked it a few feet away. The humiliation was unbearable.

Though I gave up team sports in high school, I continued to push my body in other ways: jogging, weightlifting, activities that compelled me to compete against myself. In each case, I set up a series of arbitrary goals I could never meet so there was never any end or any winning. Sports had become a punishment.

Last year, two unrelated events changed my thinking. Now in their 80s, my parents were moving again—this time into assisted living. As we sorted through boxes, my mom held up a faded Polaroid.

“Look,” she said, her voice dreamy. “You were a star.” The picture was from junior high, and in it, I’m wearing my track uniform. My mother must have been confused. “You’re thinking of Mara,” I said, referring to my sister, whose soccer team won the state championship in 1976. “No,” she replied. “You.” I looked at the picture again. This time, I noted my Lucky 13 jersey and mud-caked sneakers. My brown hair is tangled, wild; my face is drenched in sweat. My eyes are blazing. “See?” she said. “You were a fighter. You never gave up.”

Suddenly I saw myself through my mother’s eyes: I was clumsy, sure, but I was also fearless. What made me lovable to her wasn’t the trophy; it was the effort. I looked around, taking in my parents’ half-packed house. It was the showing up.

A few months later, needing activity and community, I joined my neighborhood YMCA. The indoor pool has 10 lanes, filled with people of all ages. As soon as I pushed off, I was determined to pass each of my fellow swimmers, and kicked harder. First I fell behind the brawny guy on my right, then the teenage girl two lanes over. I was sharing the lane with an older woman; under the surface, her body seemed frail and ghostlike. Surely I could beat her! But she transformed into a dolphin-sleek mermaid who pulled herself forward with ease. Soon she, too, left me behind.

Drifting through the water, I sulked for a while. Then my lane partner finished. I watched as she gripped the railing and took slow, tentative steps out of the pool. The sleek mermaid transformed again on land, back to a woman. Seeing her, I had an epiphany: I am never going to win. Surprisingly, this was OK. It’s not always about winning or losing in life. Sometimes it’s about just showing up, trying hard, dropping the baton and picking up and trying again. Most of us aren’t Simone Biles: We will never achieve perfection. But we can find love for ourselves. For the chunky girl in maroon shorts, last at the finish.

I continued to glide in the clear, cool water, and I said to that girl, the one I used to be, “Hang in there, kiddo. You’ll get there.”