Elizabeth Jaeger

Today was our first day in the field throwing. When I arrived at practice, one of the boy jumpers approached me and asked if he could try throwing javelin. I asked him why the interest, and he said, “I’m strong. I want to break the record.” And I laughed, because it seemed an almost fitting welcome to the team. And why shouldn’t I believe him? Why shouldn’t I believe that someone with limited experience could break a record?

Perhaps it’s because I know that feeling too well. The extreme isolation. The inability to connect with peers. The moment when you push the world away, accepting that it will never accept you. The crushing sadness that comes when you want to give up and you hang your head because it seems nothing you do will ever matter, ever make a difference. 

It’s been three decades since I last saw Karl. More than thirty years since I decided I wanted to be a writer. In that time, I’ve gone through I can’t even guess how many wallets, but each time I get a new one, I remove the wrapper from the old and slip into the new. And whenever I feel discouraged or on the verge of quitting, I reach into my wallet, carefully unfold the now brittle paper, and remind myself of the journey I embarked on more than thirty years ago.