To be first is to be tired

The starting line lies ahead of us, competitors standing beside me wearing the shiniest of shoes, sporting a carefree smile—how free they are of any sentiments of worry.

Except for one.

Illustration: Luke Perry Saycon

A girl on the far end of the line-up who’s devoid of any emotion. She kneels down to lace her shoes like a little girl would do to a ribbon, as if she has been preparing for this race her entire life. She resembles a warrior who’s been littered with indelible scars and carries the blame of lost wars. And there she stands before the battlefield with sheer determination, still looking like the ones I’ve heard of in fairy tales and myths.

With an aim of the pistol at the sky, the race had begun. But who knew that a fun competition for others could mean a war for survival for a girl—no, a daughter—like her?

She ran as fast as she could, immediately surpassing most of the runners. And I bet they admire her speed without knowing that she's only running to keep the roof from falling. Because that's the role she's meant to fill—to carry the weight and struggle of the family, even when her own knees buckled beneath her. Yet she maintained her strength and became a shield from the wrath of the cruel world, or the harsh and vile words from her own blood.

She pulled herself together, like the way she had to grow up and leave her childhood early on, and ran, and ran. For they handed her the baton of sacrifice before she even knew what the game was all about.

Yet she fell over.

And over.

And over again.

How could others walk so freely, while she felt like her feet were tied up—no matter how fast she tried to run? No one dared to stop by and pick her up, though she’s never expecting anyone to do so. She’d rather lay there than cause someone inconvenience by asking for help. Maybe it was already instilled in her mind that no one's coming to save her whenever she falls from grace. No one is bound to break her fall.

She knew she couldn’t afford to fail, so with a scraped knee and a twisted ankle, she picked herself up off the ground. Limping as she does, she was back in the game. Slow and steady wins the race, and maybe that statement was proven true as she led the runners once more. And when she was the first to cross the finish line, something deep in her felt fragmented despite winning.

Most people wouldn’t recognize her—perhaps not even she would—but I do. For I am the child she once left behind at the start of her own race against time, who ends up breathless trying to catch up to the version she created.

I am not mad at her, I could never be even if I tried. But I hope she forgives herself for growing up without holding my hand.

And I hope she’ll be able to see the world through my eyes one more time, where nothing would stop her anymore. 

Article: Denise Nicole Paulino