It’s not a race.

When I was in college I lived just slightly off campus and took a shuttle to campus every morning. As the other riders would deboard the shuttle bus, most people groggily dissipating in different directions heading towards their first class of the day, I would pick a person headed in the same direction as me, and decide to race them. 

They never knew I was racing them. I never said it out loud, or asked. I just decided in my mind: I was racing them. 

So my short little legs would move as fast as they could without running, carrying me across campus, through the quad, weaving in and out of other foot traffic, my eyes darting towards my opponent to make sure I was still in the lead. Sometimes taking shortcuts through certain buildings and hoping that when I came out my opponent would still be within my line of sight.

Most days I would win. And most days I was winded. And ultimately, I was satisfied with myself. But why?

The thing about racing people who don’t know you’re racing them, is that they don’t even have a chance to play defense. And when you win, it’s satisfying, but there’s also a hollow feeling because there wasn’t really a competition to begin with. After all, what is the point of competing against someone who doesn’t even know they’re competing? If they aren’t aware, how are they supposed to give it their all? And if you’re competing against someone who isn’t giving it their all, then is that a win you really want anyways?

I could dissect this silly little game I used to play all day. But ultimately, what I’ve found over and over and over again is that even when you think something in life is a race: it’s not. (Unless you’re literally in a race/marathon/etc. of some sort, in which case--go you!) 

“Comparison is the thief of joy.” (I whisper this to myself a lot when I’m feeling jelly) And sometimes, so is competition. I’m all for sports (words I never thought I’d say), competition can be healthy and good and push us to grow in new ways. But it can also drain us, make us bitter, jealous, overwhelmed and sometimes encourage us to just give up. 

One reason I liked to secretly race other people on the bus is that I’m a fast walker. My legs are pretty short, but I take long strides after years of trying to keep up with my long legged friends. I walk with intention, with purpose. I like efficiency in that way. But what I’ve noticed as I’ve gotten older is that the same walk I used to pride myself on, sometimes hurts. I find myself walking in a hurry for no reason at all, adding strain to my ankles, feet and legs that is totally unnecessary. 

Recently I decided to walk a mile during my lunch break and I was for some reason hell bent on walking it in 10 minutes. WHY? I had plenty of time to walk it. There was no reason to rush, to race myself. So I didn’t. I slowed down. I took big full breaths. And it was nice. It took me 20 minutes. I loved it. I noticed things I hadn’t before. I looked at trees, at bugs on the sidewalk, at little weeds sprouting up in the cracks of cement because they had the audacity to do so and the environment to make it happen. 

In a world that tells us to “rise and grind” (ew) and a society that puts so much value on our output, I beg of you: slow down. 

Rest. 

Take it easy. 

You have time.

More importantly you have right now, that’s all we really have, right? So why not soak it up, feel every part of it,  instead of rushing yourself through it. 

I don’t secretly race people anymore. Instead I’m working on walking the fine line of being focused and also meandering through life. Moving with intention, but not with tension. Leaving space for procrastination, for exploration, for watching a worm wiggle across the sidewalk.

There’s magic in slowness and I don’t want to miss it.