I Ran with God

Reflections of a Hurdler

From the tender age of eight to 27, my life was a melody measured in meters – a sweet song where every stride was a vivid note, every race a compelling verse, and the track an ever hospitable stage in the grand performance of my dreams. At track meets, the world around me would hush as people held their breath before an explosion of movement. The POW of a starting gun that shattered the silence and set every cell in me ablaze. My spikes pounded the track in a rhythmic cadence, like the deep, resonant drums of my people through the eons.

My event was the 100-meter hurdles. To me, there was something miraculous about training my body to both sprint and fly in one single event. The race demanded that I be both fire and ice, warrior and poet, storm and blue sky. It demanded that I do two seemingly contradictory things at once – drive forward with the raw, uninhibited, explosive power of a sprinter and defy gravity with the precision and grace of a goddess gliding over a fallen tree. A leap of faith, a surrender to the unknown, trusting that my body, mind, and spirit would align. Yes, being a hurdler is a supernatural experience. It’s trusting that in the space between takeoff and landing, your body knows what to do. It’s committing fully to the ground beneath you and the air above you. It’s pushing off with force yet surrendering to the brief, weightless moment of flight. Each hurdle was a challenge to rise above, a mountain to conquer, and by the grace of God, I soared – my body, my essence a celebration of strength and elegance intertwined.

In the fleeting seconds of each race, I was more than flesh and bone – I was a force of nature, poetry in motion written in sweat and speed. The crowd’s roar was like a tidal wave, their cheers a strong current that pushed me toward the finish line. Each race was both a blur of motion and an eternity of focus. Time held its breath, and I, in my element, touched the infinite. This was my art, my heart, my full-body prayer, and my resistance against the ordinary. Every race was a new beginning. And every finish line was a reminder that I was born to run, fly, transcend.

Track & Field awakened every fiber of my being. My body was slender and cut, from countless drills and grueling workouts. My mind, sharpened by visualization exercises and the demands of strategy and precision. My spirit, fortified by faith that could move mountains – or at least hurdle them. To sprint full speed toward obstacles, while ensuring that I used the right amount of strength, timing, and trust to clear each barrier proves that our races were more than competitions – they were prayers, rebellions, and celebrations of what it means to be fully alive. And that is nothing short of divine.

So now, when an interviewer talks on camera to athletes, and they throw their hands to the sky, and thank God, I am amused when some people ask, “Why are they thanking God? Didn’t God help everyone who competed?” Here’s what I know deep in my bones, the celebration and gratitude is not just about the moment of victory. It’s about everything leading to it. The injuries, the pain, the doubts, the countless hours of training in solitude when few others believed, the mental battles fought in the silence of the soul. To stand on the starting line, prepared to give everything, aligning mind, body, and spirit in one sacred instant of effort – that is communion with God. And to win? To break the tape, to feel burdens lift and the weight of gold press against your chest, to know that all the discipline, the pain, the faith came together at precisely the right moment? That is answered prayers. That is extraordinary. That is supernatural. Indeed the only fitting response is: “Thank you God!”

This awesome sport of Track & Field did not just mold me, strengthen me; it freed me. I was never more alive than during those years – muscles strong, melanin poppin’ in the sun, lungs expanding with the clean sharp air of promise. I felt so healthy, feminine, powerful, so Black, confident, so free. And I was so rested. No athlete achieves greatness without rest. To compete at the highest level, I had to honor my need for peace as much as the grind. I had to breathe, stretch, receive massage and all kinds of physical and mental therapy to let my body recover, to let my spirit be still. I had to trust that pausing was not weakness but wisdom. Rest is God time. There’s grace in rest.

Today, over 20 years after I retired from professional athletics, my spikes are no longer my daily uniform, and my medals rest in my keepsake box in the basement. But the rhythm and allure of the track still pulse within me. On a crisp spring or summer morning, when the fragrances of blooming flowers drift through the air, and the electric blue sky is wide with possibility, I pause and my spirit whispers, “Oooo it’s a perfect day for a track meet.”