Nearly one year ago, I woke up filled with the kind of hope that you only feel on days where dreams might come true. That night, I went to bed broken, exhausted and defeated. I’d run in the T13 5000m at the Paralympic Games, winning silver in the blistering heat of Tokyo. But for a lifetime, it had always been about winning a gold medal. As a 14-year-old, I’d been told at the Athletics Australia offices in Melbourne that I’d been “earmarked” for Tokyo. From that moment onwards, I dreamt about that race every night. Almost a decade later, I was finally in that moment, but those dreams didn’t come true. In the final strides, I knew that moment had slipped through my fingers.
I had emptied the tank. I had absolutely nothing left to give, and I’m so bloody proud of the way I kept fighting until the very end. I crossed the finish line, staggered around and then threw up. Time blurs in these moments, but I eventually found myself on a stretcher underneath the stadium. Later, I sat in an ice bath, my mind numb, my upper-body leaning outwards as I threw up into an empty shower cubicle. I felt nothing, but when you dream about a moment for so long and then it happens in the blink of an eye, what more can you feel?
