Coming in Second

I tuned into the Olympic coverage this afternoon for a few minutes and happened upon what should have been a happy scene but looked more like a heart-breaking one. Shot after shot of crying women with sweaty hair, still in their hockey pads, looking a bit shell-shocked. They had it, the announcers kept saying. They were only three minutes and thirty seconds away from a gold medal. 

I watched, entranced, as the crying continued but the women tried their best to put on a happy face as they accepted their silver medals. Silver. Medals. In the Olympics. That's what they were trying so hard not to be disappointed about. They smiled, accepted their flowers, but you could tell in their eyes that what should have been an exciting moment was now nothing more than a heartbreaking one.

I thought about this scene, and I thought about other Olympic competitions we've watched over the last two weeks--there were athletes there that were overjoyed just to get a bronze. We cheered with Noelle Pikus-Pace's family when she took silver. We were duly impressed with Shaun White when he reacted so graciously to not even making it onto the podium. We've watching snowboarding, skiing, speed-skating, figure skating, ski-jumping, hockey, and even some curling (Kevin has been up at 2 am too many times in the last couple of weeks).

I've been thinking about those women all day. I feel for them. I've been in second place far more often than I've ever been in first place. My older brother never misses a chance to remind me I'm even second place in our family. I competed in Debate for two years in high school--the best I ever did was second place in region (not saying a lot when your particular even only has so many people participating in it). My best piece of fiction writing (maybe my best piece of writing ever) took second place in the creative writing competition I entered it in.  Some of these moments were disappointments, but I have to admit as I look back, sometimes second place was an accomplishment that felt out of my reach.

I've also had perhaps more than my fair share of winning moments, and although it seems odd to say, most of my second-place finishes have felt more like grand championships than the reality of not-quite measuring up.

Here is what I take from today's results, from those brave women representing my country who feel as if they have lost it all, even with one pound of pure silver hanging around their necks: sometimes it means something just to be there. Sometimes it means everything that you tried and did your best, even when your best was not good enough. Sometimes you will work hard and put in hours and hours of sacrifice and think you have it all figured out and then a glitch will be thrown in your plans: a discouraging diagnosis, an unexpected injury, a family emergency, a financial setback, a broken pipe, a broken heart,  Sometimes you can do everything right and it still won't be enough.

Sometimes our disappointments in life can actually become our biggest victories. It's all in how we react to them.

Most of the time, life will seem unfair. No matter how hard you work, somebody will always perform better when it counts most, and it will seem that they've had everything you want handed to them with very little work. Sometimes what you see, what you feel isn't the real truth.

It's okay to come in second. It's okay to come in tenth, or twentieth, or to not even have a placing at all. You are a champion just for showing up.