Thoughts from the trackside

Please bear with yet another reflection

The other morning, I went for a training session at the track in my hometown. It’s been brutally hot in Croatia lately, and I’m definitely not used to running in this kind of heat. Everything feels twice as hard, but the feeling afterwards makes it worth it. And cold watermelon after a hot run just tastes better than anything else.

The track sits behind my old elementary school. While I was warming up, I could see the gym where we used to have PE and the window of the geography classroom, where we sat through endless lessons staring at the walls covered in painted landmarks from around the world. I remember the Eiffel Tower, the pyramids, and the water tower from Vukovar. Our geography teacher was really proud of those murals. He said they were painted by students from past generations, and I remember thinking that maybe one day I’d get to add something too if I ever got good enough at drawing.

That never happened, even though my dad was always painting in his free time, and I always hoped he would pass some of that talent on to me. He used to make art for birthdays and other special occasions for family and friends. He also painted a couple of portraits of me. Our favourite is the one based on a photo taken right after a haircut I absolutely hated. I was maybe four, and the hairdresser had cut my bangs way too short. I was furious, and you can actually see it in the painting. My mom told me I made sure to tell the hairdresser how much I hated it before we left.

While walking around the track, I noticed an old trash container still covered in graffiti and names. One name stood out right away. It belonged to someone from my generation, and the nickname was so specific I am almost sure it was him. That must have been nearly twenty years ago now, which is wild to think about.

The track itself is actually pretty nice these days. It has a proper surface, a small football field in the middle, a few benches, and some poles for strength exercises. I like going there, especially early in the morning when it’s still quiet. Back then, it was just concrete with faded lines marking the 100, 200, and 400 metres. We had PE classes there, and I remember doing all kinds of fitness tests: endurance, strength, speed. I still remember the day the teacher announced at the end of the year that I had the highest average score among all the girls in our year across all the fifth grades. I have been calling it my peak sports achievement ever since, haha.

Eventually, my PE teacher told my mom I should really get into a sport. He suggested something more individual. I picked tennis, something I had wanted to try since I was six but never had the chance to. A couple of weeks later, I started training. I loved it right away, and after a while the coach suggested I join the local competition just to see what it was like. He made sure to keep my expectations realistic, told me I probably would not win, but said it would be a good experience. Turns out I did not just lose. I could barely return most of the other girls’ serves. It was far harder than I expected. I was embarrassed, a little annoyed at the coach, and not long after, I quit.

The diving tower, Zadar

That ended up becoming a bit of a pattern. I would get excited about something, give it a try, realise I was not good at it right away, and stop. Tennis, table tennis, badminton, and even basketball for a good two weeks. I could always rationalise it: wrong sport, bad timing, other priorities. But really, I did not like the discomfort of being bad at something. For a long time, I felt awful about it, and sometimes I blamed my parents for not pushing me more. I still think learning consistency through sports as a kid is one of the best things you can take with you. And I can see how I still struggle with that now. I get discouraged quickly or talk myself out of things before I see what could actually happen.

Running has been the only real exception. It’s the one thing I’ve stuck with, even when it felt awfully hard. There are days when I don’t really feel like a runner. When an injury flares up or a bad run makes me question if I ever belonged here in the first place. The voice in my head still sometimes tries to turn it into something bigger, saying this must be proof I’m not good enough. But despite that, I’m still here somehow.

And when I think about why, the only reason that really makes sense is that when I started running, I did it just for the fun of it. No big expectations, no comparisons. I was proud of every milestone, no matter how small or big. Somewhere along the way, that mindset made it easier to stick through the bad runs, the injuries, and the doubts. And it’s the opposite of how I approached so many other things.

Basketball court, Old Town Dubrovnik

So lately I’ve been wondering what would happen if we treated more parts of our lives like that. Showing up because we like it, without expecting ourselves to be perfect straight away. Not every new thing needs to lead to a life-changing career or a big breakthrough. I know this might sound vague or obvious to some, but many of us still struggle with overthinking and let anxiety get the better of us. Maybe the real skill is staying with whatever we choose just long enough to see what’s on the other side of that awkward beginner stage.

This week, I took a step toward that idea, toward something that makes my heart rate go crazy. What happens next isn’t entirely up to me, but taking that step gave me a little sense of accomplishment.

And I think that is the kind of track worth coming back to. The one where effort counts more than the outcome, and more than whatever we thought those outcomes needed to look like.