I spent the first few exciting afternoons of my freshman year standing in a freezing trash can. At one point or another, I was joined by almost every other girl on the freshman cross country team. Whether it was for twisted ankles, battered knees, or strained hip muscles, we would all hobble down to the PAC basement after a grueling practice to spend 30 minutes squirming in icy water. And while many of my injured teammates would return to the starting line soon enough, I never did. I spent the next eight months numbing fractured shins in a frigid bin, occasionally glancing up from the Milesplit content crowding my Instagram feed to seek comfort in a quote stapled to the hallway bulletin board: “Pain is nothing compared to what it feels like to quit.”

The no-quit mentality is what first attracted me to distance running, and for seven years long runs were the most enjoyable and rewarding part of my day. The greater the distance, the more brutal the weather, the steeper the incline, the more fulfilled I felt when I tapped my mailbox to finish. I ran for the wonderful sensation I felt after pushing myself to my limit, for the satisfaction that came with seeing my work ethic displayed on a stopwatch. I ran for my own personal enjoyment and betterment. Competitive cross country changed that.

Come preseason, I happily joined the group of eager, impressionable young runners fascinated by the thrilling new world of high-tech running watches, glossy medals, and neon spikes. I was enthralled by posters capturing decorated mud-covered athletes crying out as they charged through treacherous terrain, inspirational videos of Olympic sprinters with torn hamstrings dragging themselves over the finish line to the cheers of a roaring crowd, and articles celebrating collegiate runners who sprained their ankles mid-race but toughed it out for the remaining few miles. My gratifying hobby became corrupted by the mindset championed through vibrant banners at Nike stores: “No Pain, No Gain,” “Taking it easy won’t take you anywhere,” “Train Insane or Stay The Same.” I trained through agonizing shin splints because a proper athlete would tough it out and race the pivotal championship meet. I justified each excruciating step towards the starting line with “Pain is temporary, but victory is eternal.”

The self-destructive mindset I adopted as a student athlete is tragically common, and disturbingly endorsed. I’ve seen it manifest in teammates on the floor of musty locker rooms, desperately tugging at knee socks to hide the ankle braces beneath their shin guards; friends in the cages beneath the bleachers, icing swollen knees behind stacks of broken hurdles so coaches won’t see; older siblings in the darkness of our garage, holding flashlights to gruesome bruises and a finger to their lips begging, “Don’t tell mom, I need to play tomorrow.” I see it now in my little sister, a state-ranked swimmer with a fractured spine who I constantly scold for sneaking in push ups when she thinks no one’s looking. I recognize it in my freshman self, who dodged her coach in the hallways for weeks and choked on tears when she finally admitted to him that she was too weak to run on broken bones. It’s the cruel paradox plaguing sports: the commendation of athletes willing to compromise their physical wellbeing for the sake of pursuing success.

I haven’t jogged up to the starting line in three years. But every Saturday morning I walk to the base of my driveway, lace up my running shoes, and head off on a quiet run. I still subscribe to the no-quit mentality, still sprint up the steep hill at the edge of my neighborhood and refuse to walk no matter how exhausted I feel. But there’s a difference between pushing yourself to be better and driving yourself into the ground. Exercise for your own betterment, compete for the satisfaction it brings.