The race was over, and I was exhausted. My legs felt like Jell-O, and I was pretty sure I still had half a granola bar stuck in my throat. I flopped into the fold-up chair like I’d just finished a marathon—even though it was a 5K.
Coach Tate walked over, breathing heavy, sweat dripping down his tattooed arm. He always looked a little intimidating, like the kind of guy who used to bounce at clubs or ride a motorcycle with no helmet. But today he was wearing the same race shirt as us—Girls on the Run, except his barely fit over his biceps.
He handed me a bottle of water and a crumpled brown bag with my name scribbled on it.
“Good run, Mia,” he said, messing up my hair. “You pushed through the pain. Proud of you.”
I rolled my eyes, trying to act cool. But yeah, it meant something.
A few minutes later, while I was digging through the bag for the cookie I knew he put in there, I heard him talking to one of the race volunteers behind me.
“I don’t care what her file says,” he said. “That girl’s got fight. I see it every time she doubts herself and keeps going anyway.”
I froze.
Because I knew what file he meant.
And what was in it wasn’t supposed to leave the office.
What he said next made my chest go tight—and it’s the reason I still haven’t told my mom what really happened during the last mile…
The file Coach Tate mentioned wasn’t some random stack of papers about my running stats or how many push-ups I could do. It was something deeper—something personal that only a handful of people knew about. A year ago, I’d been diagnosed with dyslexia, and suddenly school became this big mountain I didn’t know how to climb. Reading assignments felt impossible, tests were nightmares, and even writing my name on the board made my hands shake. The guidance counselor had written all of it down—the struggles, the tears, the meetings where they talked about whether I should stay in advanced classes or move to something easier.
That file? It wasn’t just about academics. It was labeled Mia: Potential Challenges . Translation: They thought I might not be able to handle things.
But Coach Tate didn’t seem to agree.
“She doesn’t need anyone telling her she can’t,” he continued to the volunteer. His voice dropped lower, but I strained to hear every word. “She’s stronger than any label anyone wants to slap on her. You watch. She’ll prove them wrong.”
My cheeks burned, partly from embarrassment and partly because…well, no one had ever talked about me like that before. Like I was more than my mistakes, more than my struggles. Like I could actually be something.
Still, there was one thing nagging at me: Why did Coach Tate have access to my file? And why did he sound so sure about me when everyone else—including me sometimes—wasn’t?
After the race, I avoided him. I grabbed my medal (which honestly felt heavier than usual) and mumbled something about needing to find my mom. She was waiting near the parking lot, scrolling through her phone, oblivious to the storm brewing inside me.
“Hey, champ!” she said, holding out her arms for a hug. “How’d it go?”
“Fine,” I muttered, shrugging off my backpack and shoving the medal into it. I couldn’t look at her. Not yet.
Mom raised an eyebrow. “Fine? That’s it? You’ve been training for months.”
“It was fine,” I repeated, kicking at a pebble. Then, quieter: “I almost quit halfway through.”
Her face softened. “Oh, sweetie. Did something happen?”
I shook my head quickly. No way was I telling her. If she found out, she’d start asking questions—questions that would lead straight back to Coach Tate and whatever he knew about my file. And if she figured out he’d seen it? She’d lose it. Mom hated when adults treated me differently because of my dyslexia. She called it “pity” and said it was poison.
So instead, I forced a smile. “Nah. Just tired.”
The next practice was awkward. I kept glancing at Coach Tate, wondering if he’d say anything about the conversation I overheard—or worse, bring up my file. But he acted completely normal. Too normal, actually. He joked around with the other girls, encouraged us during drills, and handed out snacks like nothing unusual had happened.
Until the end of practice.
As we stretched under the setting sun, he motioned for me to hang back. My stomach twisted. Was he going to confront me about eavesdropping? Or explain how he knew so much about me?
Instead, he sat down on the grass beside me and pulled out a small notebook. “Ever heard of journaling?” he asked casually.
“Nope,” I replied, suspicious. “Isn’t that, like, for poets or something?”
He chuckled. “Not necessarily. Sometimes it’s for fighters. People who need a place to untangle their thoughts.”
I frowned. “What’s that got to do with me?”
He flipped open the notebook and showed me a page filled with messy handwriting. “This is mine. Whenever life gets overwhelming, I write stuff down. Good days, bad days, lessons learned—you name it. Helps me keep perspective.”
I stared at the words scrawled across the page. They weren’t perfect. Some letters were smudged, others crossed out. But it didn’t matter. What mattered was that he’d done it anyway.
“I’m not good at writing,” I admitted quietly. “It takes forever.”
“That’s okay,” he said. “No one’s grading you here. Just try it. One sentence a day. Write about your runs, your wins, your frustrations. Whatever you want.”
Then he handed me the notebook and stood up. “Start tomorrow. See where it takes you.”
At first, I thought journaling would feel dumb. Who writes about their feelings voluntarily? But after a week, I realized it wasn’t about perfection—it was about honesty. I wrote about how hard it was to keep pace during sprints. About the frustration of mixing up left and right during drills. And yes, about the anger I felt whenever someone assumed I couldn’t succeed because of my dyslexia.
Slowly, something shifted. Writing gave me a way to process everything—not just running, but school too. When math problems seemed impossible or reading assignments overwhelmed me, I reminded myself of the same lesson Coach Tate taught me on the track: Progress isn’t always fast, but it’s still progress.
One evening, after practice, I finally worked up the courage to ask him about my file. We were alone on the field, the sky streaked with orange and pink.
“How did you know about my dyslexia?” I blurted out.
He paused, leaning against the fence. “Your mom told me.”
“What?” I gasped. “She promised she wouldn’t tell anyone!”
“She didn’t mean to break your trust,” he said gently. “She just wanted me to understand if you ever struggled. To help you without making assumptions.”
I blinked, processing that. Mom hadn’t betrayed me—she’d trusted Coach Tate to support me. And he had. In his own gruff, unconventional way.
“Why do you care so much?” I asked softly.
He grinned, rubbing the back of his neck. “Let’s just say I’ve been where you are. Labels stick, kid. But they don’t define you unless you let them.”
Months passed, and I kept pushing myself—not just in running, but in everything. By the end of the season, I wasn’t just finishing races; I was placing. And in class, I started raising my hand again, even if it took me longer to answer.
On the last day of practice, Coach Tate called me aside once more. This time, he handed me a brand-new notebook.
“You’ve earned this,” he said simply. “Keep fighting—for yourself, not for anyone else.”
Tears pricked my eyes, but I nodded. “Thanks, Coach.”
Looking back now, I realize Coach Tate wasn’t just teaching me how to run. He was showing me how to believe in myself—even when the world doubted me. Life throws challenges our way, but it’s up to us to decide how we respond. Whether it’s dyslexia, fear, or failure, we’re stronger than we think.
So here’s my challenge to you: Find your own version of journaling. Your own way to untangle the mess and focus on what matters. Because trust me—it makes all the difference.
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