I jumped headfirst into speech & debate my sophomore year, and vowed that I would one day bring home trophy after trophy. I wanted to be good at something. I wanted to feel proud of myself. I worked hard, but saw that my duo partner, Michael, found more success in his individual event at one tournament than we did together in one season. We didn’t make finals at any tournament my whole junior year, and I blamed it on bad judges, loaded rounds, and stress from my other event. I thought we deserved to win.

I began my senior season with more focus and determination than I ever had spent on a school activity. Michael and I went through piece after piece until finally agreeing that we had found the perfect one. We doubled our practice times, working hard to ensure that we would earn a place in a finals round. One of the biggest local tournaments was upon us, and we wanted it more than anything. We competed in the routine three preliminary rounds. We felt good about our performances, but there was some big competition at the tournament. We began to doubt ourselves. Then, the final rounds were posted. I squeezed my way through the crowd to see what was to happen, my heart practically beating through my crisp pink Oxford.

I stared at my entry code on the sheet. It was one of six. We made it. But in that moment, I wanted more than anything to have been eliminated. I had convinced myself that I was one half of a spectacular duo, that our win was long overdue. But I didn’t want it anymore. Here I was, set to battle against frequent finalists. I felt like the odd one out. It had to have been a fluke that we made finals. I didn’t feel good enough. But what if we were? What if we won the whole tournament? Would we let everyone down? Peaked at this round and had to try and live up to it for the rest of the season?

I tried to calm myself, act as if I wasn’t nervous. All I wanted to do was run from the fluorescently lighted cafeteria in which I’d spent the entire day. I wanted to run home and bury myself in my covers. I didn’t want to deal with this round. It was as if my life depended on it. And I was going to mess it up. I just knew it.

My coach found me before the round and gave me a big hug. He told me to “go kill it,” and my anxiety spiked. I didn’t want to let him down. I swallowed the lump in my throat and managed a half ¬smile. I felt like I was going to throw up. I don’t remember getting to the classroom where the final round took place. It was almost like an out?of¬?body experience. There were more people in the room than usual, not just the judges and my fellow competitors, but also peers and parents who had come to watch the final battle.

We were set to speak second, but because Michael also made finals in his individual event, we were pushed back to fifth speaker – second to last. My knees shook and I felt dizzy. I didn’t notice that Michael had slid into the seat beside me until I felt his hand squeeze mine. I looked at him, and he gave me a meaningful nod. One more performance, and we would be up. I zoned out, failing to suppress the ball of fear that ricocheted around my stomach. It felt so real I thought it would bruise. Applause jarred me from my inattentiveness. It was our turn.

I had a choice to make. I could perform like I was expecting to lose. Or I could try to win. That was what really terrified me – winning. In the five seconds it took to push myself up from my chair and stride to the front of the room, I realized that I had been running from winning my entire life. I had always used the external as a scapegoat. I never once accepted that I was the one in my own way. For some backwards, twisted reason, I wanted to remain average. I didn’t want to win because I didn’t think I had what it took to become a winner.

I aligned myself to Michael’s right. We surveyed the room in unison. Right. Left. Center. We inhaled together, and I sidestepped neatly behind him as he stepped forwards on our simultaneous exhale. We began.

An hour and a half later, we sat together in the auditorium, nervous for what the awards ceremony would determine. Our event was called last. We made our way to the stage with the other finalists. The lights were too bright. They announced the sixth place team. It wasn’t us. Then the fifth. Fourth. My heart sped up. The three remaining duos began fidgeting. I clenched my fists to stop my hands from shaking. Third. My jaw dropped. Second. Our competitors had exited the stage, leaving us standing alone. They announced the final duo. I never thought that I would hear my name last. I was in shock. My teammates sprung from their seats as Michael and I were each handed a heavy glass plaque engraved with the words, “Winter Wonder; Duo Interpretation; First Place.”