I Believe in Redefining Success

My entire life I have held the belief that success was quantitative. I believed that my
intelligence could be measured with grades and exam scores and that my athletic achievements
could be boiled down to the number of points I scored or the number of runs I gave up or batted
in. In my elementary school days of playing basketball, baseball, and flag football, I
meticulously compiled my in-game stats. Pouring over rebound, RBI, and touchdown totals I
tried to analyze my performance and compare it to that of my teammates. At the end of more
than seven years of playing basketball my dad told me that only a handful of times had I ever
come home happy after a game.
In high school I defined myself as a runner. Since joining the cross-country team
freshman year, I fell in love with the sport and fully committed myself to the craft for the next
four years. From the start, I set my sights on becoming a varsity runner, an achievement that
would require an eighteen minute 5k. In my first 5k I collapsed at the finish line after suffering
through a dismal 23 minute race. From humble beginnings I moved up from the back of the team
to a few groups below varsity. At the end of the year, I was the last runner chosen to go the
district meet where I ran a 19:30 minute 5K, my personal best up until then. During my second
season on the team, I gained the mental fortitude to push myself harder and harder and began to
see practice as an opportunity to prove myself. Rather than merely completing my training I
raced my teammates to the finish and watched as my times continued to drop. By then, running
became something more than simply exercise or self-improvement; it was all about status. This
time at the district meet, seeing the clock slowly tick toward 18 minutes I desperately sprinted
toward my goal. I was in a world alone with the finish line. Nothing else seemed to matter not
my lungs screaming for air and not the crowd that had suddenly turned silent. I lunged across the

finish line in utter amazement to a time of 17:59. Victory. I was now a varsity runner but I
wanted more.
Two years later, I proudly became the senior varsity captain of the team and while as a
freshman I had doubted myself, I now truly believed that anything could be accomplished with
determination. Over four years and enumerable hours of training, my teammates and I became a
community driven by the shared thrill of competition and the desire to leave behind a defining
legacy. To reach the pinnacle of achievementa sub 17 minute 5k, a shot at a state
championship, and a spot in the school record books-- I pushed myself harder than ever. I began
monitoring my nutrition, adding extra workouts before and after practice, and became obsessed
with defending my place on the team from up and coming runners. While we were a community
that pushed each other when we were down, the distance team was a hierarchy motived by
individual struggle. Four years had ultimately led to one final race; our chance for success but
more importantly my chance to prove that I was every bit the champion I had trained to be. I
firmly believed this singular moment would ultimately define my entire career.
Bang! A hectic mass of runners charged into the heat of battle. When it mattered most,
the team had our worst race ever. Mud sloshed off my ailing legs, as I trudged to the finish line in
an aura of defeat to see a time of 17:54. Heartbroken, I knew instantly that I failed to match even
the most modest of expectations. When defeated before I had resolved only to work harder, but
now there was no next time. My promising career had ended in mediocrity.
For days after the race I struggled with how I had betrayed my teammates, myself, and
my belief in hard work. As I wrestled with whether to define my career with the label of success
or failure, I looked back on what transpired over the last four years. I had become a leader, an
athlete, and a teammate. Transforming from a shy freshman to team leader I had learned to

motivate my younger teammates to reach their full potential. I had worked my way up from the
back of the pack and had pursued a goal with steadfast determination. Finally, I had formed lifelong friendships with my teammates through the shared bond of competition. So while my final
time would forever remain at 17:17, I choose to define my career by personal triumphs instead.
My experience, as I see it clearly now, was bigger than times, awards, or accolades. That is why I
now believe that my view of success was entirely incorrect. Success cannot be determined from
data or rankings, but only from the quality of an experience and how it has shaped you to
become the person you are today.