The Goldfish in My Stomach

My stomach did that thing again—the full-on aquarium churn. Like I'd swallowed a **goldfish** whole and it was still swimming around in there, panicked and orange and totally judging me.

"You're literally overthinking this," Maya said, scrolling through her phone without looking up. "It's just **running**. People do it every day. Some people even enjoy it, which is honestly concerning, but still."

I stared at the track registration form like it was a breakup text from my crush. Freshman year, and somehow I'd already convinced myself that joining the track team was either going to fix my entire life or completely ruin it. There was no in-between.

"What if I'm dead last?" I said. "What if I trip over my own feet and everyone's like, 'wow, remember that girl who ate it on the first day'?"

Maya finally looked up. "Then you get back up. Also, stop catastrophizing. It's giving anxiety, and I say that as someone with diagnosed anxiety."

My mom had started me on these massive **vitamin** D supplements because apparently I never went outside, which was fair. But now I was convinced that if I did anything athletic without them, I'd immediately collapse. They sat in my backpack like little orange guarantees that I wouldn't die.

The first practice was exactly as terrifying as I'd built it up in my head. Everyone else looked like they belonged on a Wheaties box. Meanwhile, I stood there in clearance Target shorts wondering if my shoes were too new-looking, if my socks were too white, if I was trying too hard or not trying hard enough.

"Newbie!" Coach yelled. "Let's see what you've got!"

I took off, and somewhere around the second lap, something shifted. The goldfish in my stomach stopped thrashing and started... swimming. My legs found a rhythm that felt like mine, not borrowed from anyone else. The panic dissolved into this weird clarity—the ground, the air, the sound of my own breath.

I didn't come in first. I didn't come in last, either. But afterward, when my hands were on my knees and I was gulping air like I'd never tasted oxygen before, I realized something: nobody was watching me as hard as I was watching myself.

"Not terrible," Maya said when I told her later. "But lowkey, you need better socks."

I laughed. For the first time in forever, the fishbowl felt a little bigger.