Despite all my preparation, I started to doubt myself.
I began to question my ability.
Looking back, I think it’s interesting that when I appeared most invincible, the Lord allowed me to feel my own humanity and weakness.
My racing season had started in the dead of winter with a full indoor schedule, and heading into March, I had won my first World Indoor title in Istanbul, Turkey. Indoor racing is different—the track is banked and a shorter distance—but the victory gave me a lot of confidence going into the outdoor part of my schedule.
My first big outdoor race had taken place at the Jamaica Invitational at the National Stadium in Kingston. I’m always motivated to run well when I return to Jamaica, and despite running for America, it always feels like I have a home track advantage because of the number of family and friends in the stands. Plus, I was full of fire coming off my World Indoor championship and eager to translate that indoor win to an outdoor victory, but Jamaican Novlene Williams-Mills ran 49.9, a very fast race for early May, and nipped me at the line to win.
The defeat in Jamaica left me questioning my form and strategy.
Confidence requires balance, and it’s a razor-thin line where pride meets humility. Before many of my races, these two seem to face off.
Standing in lane 4 at Hayward back in Eugene, just two weeks after the loss in Jamaica, with Novlene to my right in lane five, my focus centered on silencing the monkey chatter bouncing around my brain. Athletes think of those opposing voices, the negative thoughts, the loud whispers of doubt, as mental monkey chatter. It’s nonsense, meaningless—but it can haunt you. And around my starting blocks, the monkey chatter was beginning to drown out what I knew to be true: I could win this race.
Instead of reinforcing what could go right, I was assessing all the things that might go wrong.
And to top it all off, the wind began gusting inside the stadium. I actually chuckled to myself as the weather began to manifest my inward struggle. This can’t be happening, I thought as I searched for something that was going my way. I settled for thinking at least I braided my hair so it wouldn’t get in my eyes.
Taking a deep breath and closing my eyes, I realized that my hair was a point to be thankful for. With the confidence of a daughter whose Father was truly watching, I whispered, “Peace! Be still!”
What happened instead was greater than I could have ever imagined.
The winds in the stadium ceased.
Kneeling down, I settled into my blocks, knowing that whatever the outcome, I was running that day not against anyone but with the One.
Novlene, who was in lane 5, and Amantle Montsho, who was inside me in lane 3, are both very aggressive runners. After the first 100 meters, they usually like to hit the gas. Compared to them, I try to be conservative on the backstretch. With this approach, I typically have enough fuel in my tank to stay poised and kick through the finish.
When we came through the last turn, Amantle was out in front by a few meters, and Novlene and I were dead even. I said to myself, Don’t panic. It was like I inhaled an extra breath. My muscles weren’t tense or tight. I wasn’t overthinking. I was free from any negative thoughts. I was free to run and free from doubt, and my body knew it. I worked my arms to help generate a last kick and pulled away through the tape.
I punched the air with my right arm as I crossed the line. The fight was over, and I had won. It was an important win on a big stage, and I felt triumphant in that moment. Within seconds, a new feeling washed over me. I started shaking my fists in front of me like a giddy little kid. This is what it feels like, I thought to myself, and I thanked God for showing me the way to victory and sharing the moment with me.
It was scary, though. Trusting God’s will for my life didn’t ensure that I would never face hardship or that I would never lose another race. The promise was not that I would have painless short-term wins. In fact, it practically assured me I would face trials and tribulations, but I was strengthened by believing that God’s plan for me was far better than anything I could ever dream of or imagine.
I found freedom in that obedience. It didn’t relieve me from the daily work—from the struggle and sacrifice of training and racing—but I was set free from the trivial worry of not measuring up, of not being good enough. This new approach silenced the “what ifs” in my life, and I imagine it’s the same seed of faith that motivated Dad as a younger man. Although he felt the call as a competitive athlete, the setting and circumstances of his life didn’t promote it.
Instead of forcing the issue, he was satisfied to wait. My father was satisfied to treasure my triumphs as greater than his own.
When I came through the final turn at the Prefontaine, I was trailing in the race, but I wasn’t afraid. Nothing negative held me back. I continued to work the strategy of the race, knowing the Lord was also working.
He isn’t about to abandon His work.
POISE
We all have the power to move mountains in our lives with a word, but it first starts with belief.
Do the work and remain prayerful. Stay the course, and stay poised through the finish.
In the midst of our striving, preparing as best we can, controlling what we can, we still have to accept our powerlessness against certain forces. We have to completely surrender ourselves to trusting God, that He will direct our path and lead us into His will for our lives.
Chapter 13
EXCHANGE ZONE
Accepting Change
But if we hope for what we do not yet have, we wait for it patiently.
ROMANS 8:25
Relays, to me, are the most elegant and most graceful events to observe in the sport of track and field. As four runners blend their unique talents to compete in unison, a successful relay is not only a harmony of speed but also a rhythm of reaction.
The baton is the key, and it must be played correctly. When everything works in the right step, you almost don’t see the stick as it’s handed off. The exchange just happens, like a natural flow of motion. But the handoff is actually a practiced dance. A runner’s steps have to be in accord with the other’s. If you’re out of sync, if you’re stepping out of turn, you’ll miss the moment for the exchange.
Timing is everything.
In Beijing at the 2008 Olympic Games, Team USA’s 4x100m relay team was disqualified for not passing the baton during the 20-meter exchange zone. I watched with eager anticipation, because Lauryn Williams, one of my best friends, was running the anchor leg. Even as a bystander, I observed the race as a runner—timing their steps, counting strides, and reading faces like I was prepared to accept the stick and continue the race.
Lauryn was awaiting Tori Edwards for the final exchange of the relay. She took off, but after some hesitancy and confusion, they dropped the stick. They were both prepared and primed to make the perfect exchange, but they missed the window and the opportunity to win gold.
It was heartbreaking to witness my teammates with their heads hung low as they walked off the track in disappointment, but it’s even harder to witness someone miss their window of opportunity in their everyday life.
Transition in life is much like the way I see a well-executed relay.
One toe. One tiny toe. Actually, it’s my right big toe, but in comparison to the rest of my body—to the other muscles and tendons and bones I call on and pound on to motor around a track—the toe is quite small. But don’t tell that to my right big toe. You might hurt its feelings.
My toe first started talking to me as a junior in high school. Slow down, it said. And I almost cried out—the pain was so intense. I told the toe to be quiet, and I kept running. We’ve had a contentious relationship ever since.
Since I was seven years old, I’ve asked a lot of that toe. I’ve dug that toe tight against the turf, coiled my whole body weight on top of it, and pressed into it to begin the push phase of my race. I can’t be mad at it. Thousands of times, probably hundreds of thousands of times, those itty-bitty bones, ba
rely worth measuring in inches, have absorbed the weight of my existence and projected me forward.
My toe eventually broke. I broke it. I don’t remember exactly when—shocking, I know—and the when doesn’t matter as much as the why. I worked it, worked it, and worked it some more. The toe didn’t splinter or shatter; it just cracked a little, to prove a point.
You’re not perfect, Sanya, it told me. You won’t last forever.
I didn’t need the X-ray to see it; I could feel it. The rigid, stiff thunderbolt that shot up through my foot and leg every time I put my weight on it spoke pretty clearly.
By the time I crossed the finish line to win the 4x400m relay and second gold medal in London, I couldn’t ignore the toe any longer. Surgery was a necessity. Not to fix it, but to join the bones together with a few screws so it could withstand more years of digging and pushing. My toe told me it would keep trying, but it also told me it was time to mentally and spiritually prepare myself for what was next.
My toe inspired my instinct, my constant reminder, that I inevitably would go through an exchange zone in my life.
Surgery to repair the bones in my toe was never promised as a fix-all. I knew that running or racing pain-free wasn’t in the cards anymore, but as athletes, pain is a common training partner. I think we actually embrace it as a sensation that tells us we’re alive and working. We hold it close, toughening our resolve because of its very existence. It gives us a mental edge. I would tell myself, If this is hurting me, it must be killing my competitors.
I had the procedure on my toe late in 2012, and it required a couple months of rehabilitation. The expectation was that I could start training again in February 2013. That gave me a bit of a late start, but coming off an Olympic year, I didn’t mind the prospect of missing the indoor season. I’d be ready to go by summer, when the European Diamond League races are in full swing.
The toe had other ideas. I’d had pain before, but after the surgery, it felt like I lost all the flexion in the joint. Not only could I not stand to put my weight into it, but the foot was too rigid and stiff to allow me to lift into my stride. It was worse than before.
Training was abbreviated at best. When I’m in season, it’s a five-days-a-week job, from morning to night. I’m in the weight room first thing, then rehab and recovery, and then track and core work in the evening. But the pain and lack of flexibility made it difficult to string together more than a couple days of training in a row.
I always believed in my ability to compete when it matters. So against Coach Hart’s recommendation, I competed at the USATF National Championships in June 2013. The pain was so severe that I ran the finals of the 400 in my sneakers. Everyone joked that I must have the record out of lane 2 in sneakers, not our usual racing spikes, finishing sixth in 51.9 seconds.
We decided on another surgery to smooth down the bones, which we hoped would help me run more comfortably. It was the best course of action, but it also meant I’d be out of work for the summer of 2013.
Here I was, coming face-to-face with the reality that I would have to begin to imagine life outside of my “oval office.” Now with no racing schedule to focus on, it was time to consider my other passions and competencies as avenues for me to contribute to the world in new ways.
I needed to prepare for my transition.
The tough thing about this next phase was that it would move me into completely unfamiliar territory. My entire life was shaped around the idea of winning races. I never had a part-time job, never pursued summer internships, never even considered what kind of professional I’d be if I weren’t a professional athlete. But by winning these races, I had access to a network I could tap into. I just had to open my heart to the idea of using it.
During the course of my career, I’ve had the opportunity to meet some of the brightest and most inspirational industry leaders—breakfast with Bob Costas, discussing how he made his indelible mark in broadcasting; lunch with Mark Parker, the CEO of Nike; and dinner with Kevin Liles, music mogul and former president of Def Jam Recordings.
Every meeting was special and unforgettable. During this unique time of awareness as I readied for transition, Kevin Liles made a huge impact on my thought process. He challenged me to articulate what the SRR brand meant, what I stood for, and what personal pillars others could connect to. He admired everything I did on the track but explained the importance of branding, of setting myself apart by defining who I was.
From that moment on, I worked hard to develop the SRR brand. He told me to think of three words that companies and individuals could relate to and then to be sure everything I did aligned with my core values. The three words I selected were excellence, philanthropy, and beauty.
After 2012, my off-seasons weren’t true off-periods any longer. I knew I was racing toward the exchange zone of my career. I had to prepare. I had to make decisions and sacrifices to build my brand. Many times there was no pay, just the pursuit of an opportunity. It was tiresome at times, and it felt like work, because I was juggling two selves—Sanya, the defending Olympic champion, and Sanya, the fashionista, entrepreneur, philanthropist, and aspiring media personality.
Some days I lamented the loss of innocence and longed for the days at Vaz Prep, when I was so excited by the discovery of my talent and the process of developing it. There were no decisions then, no worries or struggles, but just the joy of work.
And I realized that the new blessing I searched for was no different. The blessing was the opportunity. The reward wouldn’t be a tangible thing any longer—no more medals and trophies—but a chance to continue the journey, to experience new people and places. Yes, that would be work, but to work is to be blessed.
After my third surgery in 2015, I knew that had to be my last. My toe had given me so much, and it was time to finally give it the rest it deserved. The 2016 track season would be my final one, no matter the outcome.
It was time to enter my exchange zone.
When I officially announced my retirement at the start of the 2016 season, I felt vulnerable and a little lost. Yes, in my heart I knew it was time, but it took every ounce of courage and faith I had to actually do it. I prepared my post for social media two weeks prior to actually making it public. Thoughts kept filling my head. Maybe the toe will calm down again. Maybe God isn’t through with me on the track.
But I knew it was time to let it go.
I had given twenty-four of my thirty-one years to my sport and had been rewarded greatly. And even though it caused me great pain every day, I still loved it. I knew there was still more running in my legs. But I realized in the moments leading up to my retirement announcement that it was time to show my appreciation for my gift by returning it to the Giver and stepping out in the faith that what He had in store for me would be even greater.
The beauty and brilliance of God’s plans are all around us—if only we take the time to be self-aware and look. Days after my final race, I received a call from the producers at NBC. They wanted me to join their team in the broadcasting booth for the remainder of the Olympic Trials and for the upcoming Olympic Games in Rio.
Within a week of really, fully laying down my crown, the adventure in broadcasting began. My courage in announcing my retirement and letting go of my first love paid off. What might have not happened until several years later, had I gotten my way, became a sudden promotion into a lifelong dream that is just beginning.
Faith and courage get us safely through the exchange zone. No two handoffs are alike. But we always want the same outcome: to achieve the passing of the baton and to keep running. Just taking the next step, I realized, is an act of hope as you trust God to see you through.
POISE
Fear seems to work in one of two ways: it either pushes you into unsafe waters or traps you into panic.
Fear prevents us from entering the next stage of success. Instead of keeping our heads down and trusting the process—trusting our preparation and practice—we get jumpy and move on too quickly. Other
times we are afraid to move. When the window opens for us to transition through the exchange zone of life, we hold too tightly to our comfort zones, our proven gifts, our past successes.
Fear holds us back from embracing every season of our lives, which are richly rewarded when we pursue those exchanges with God as our running companion. We must be present and have the courage to step out in faith when we know it’s time to move on and accept the plans that our Father has laid out for us.
Chapter 14
VICTORY LAP
Taking a Bow
[Jesus said,] “I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world, you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.”
JOHN 16:33
Some victory laps are in the perfect shape of an oval, a track; others look more like a figure eight. I’ve experienced both.
The Call
Friday, July 1, 2016
Be still.
I heard my words, and the voice that speaks to me so clearly on this track. I realized He was talking to me.
Walk the Talk
July 2012
The minute I stepped into the athletes’ village at the 2012 London Games, I was the Olympic champion. I walked and talked as if I had already won. I kept repeating to myself, I am the champ.
In my preparation for my third Olympics, I incorporated intense visualization. I had already seen myself winning. I already knew what I would do when I crossed the finish line. Everything unfolded as if I was executing a plan I had rehearsed hundreds of times in my mind.
Chasing Grace Page 11