Pushing through the Pain: My Journey to the NCCAA Indoor National Meet

Published: March 04, 2026

Author: Lydia Cahill

Photo by Dave Bell

The Fall

I could see the excitement on my coach’s face—I was doing it; I was on pace for an 800m personal best. My family and teammates roared as I rounded the track, metal spikes clawing the rubber surface. The girl on my left was fighting for the lead, but I surged, inching ahead of her to take control of the pack. That’s when I felt it…the spikes digging into the back of my shoe.

Suddenly, before I even realized what was happening, I was on the ground. Another competitor had accidentally clipped the back of my spike, sending me sprawling to the track…and hopelessly out of reach of a good race.

“Finish the race,” my mind screamed as I watched shock explode on the faces of my teammates waiting at the finish line. Heartbeat thundering and vision dazed, I scrambled up, now far behind the leaders.

Panic. That was what consumed my mind as I crossed the finish line well behind the time I was set to run before falling. This was my last chance, the final meet to prove I could earn a spot at Christian Nationals in Cedarville, Ohio, the next weekend.

“I promise I can run faster next weekend,” I pleaded with coach Brian Patton, between gasps of stale air, lungs burning from the race.

“You showed me what you needed to,” he replied.

I smiled, relief melting through me—I would still get the chance to race at the national meet.

The Meet

I walked onto campus with awe, soaking in the sight of the sunset’s light reflected on the iced-over lake. Students walked across the bridges littering Cedarville University, oblivious to my anticipation of coming to their school.

My teammates and I ran around the Ohio-based campus, our steps charged with excitement, preparing our bodies and minds for the races ahead.

As we stepped back inside to begin our pre-race drills, my heartbeat ratcheted—this was it, I would really be racing the 4x800, bringing home the baton as the final leg.

We passed the podium; medals whose fates had not been decided glinted on a table nearby.

“We are capable of winning one of those,” I thought as we continued walking to the check-in table.

I ran my fingers over the smooth pink ribbons swinging from my hair—the team’s way of celebrating Valentine’s Day. As we stretched and skipped, jumped and jogged through our various pre-race ceremonies, sweat clung to my skin, heating my body for the task ahead.

Norah Atkins and I practiced our baton handoffs; she was the third leg and I the fourth. I smacked my legs with the aluminum tube, like a jockey’s horse whip.

“We can do this! It is just four laps!” Natali Roth said.

“Do you all want to pray?” Norah asked, pulling us all into a huddle. We all stuck our right shoes in, making a four-pointed star; our warm exhales filling the space between our bowed heads.

As Norah prayed, I clung tightly to my teammates’ shoulders. We were united in this; we had to depend on each other to give it our all.

All four of us were at such different stages of our lives. Norah was a nursing major, married, and about to graduate. Natali, a sophomore exercise science major, Alexis Martinez, a freshman criminal justice & psychology double major, and I (Lydia Cahill), a freshman English major. On paper, in the real world, none of us should have run into each other. Yet here we were, running for each other; a baton connecting us all.

“Alright, ladies! Jog down to the line,” called the official.

Alexis put a hand on my back, “You got this—just be calm. Coach P says to just run the race you were on your way to running last week. Remember, just get the baton and breathe.”

I took a deep breath, cleansing the anxiety clogging my throat, “Okay, I got this.”

Natali leaned over the line, the first leg of our relay. With a crack of the gun, she was off, placing our team in a perfect position to succeed.

“GO NATALI!” we screamed as she tied off her first lap, her face set in a mask of determination.

Before we knew it, Alexis was lined up to take the baton, encouraging Natali through her final strides.

Alexis raced around the track, battling against our competitors to keep the team in medal contention. Her strides were even and measured; her ribbons fluttered behind her in the wind of her own creation. Alexis finished her leg and handed the baton to Norah.

I watched Norah race in awe, her turnover so fast it was dizzying. Her face looked relaxed even as she turned to grit to keep moving—her final surge a whir of voices and teammates’ faces.

I lined up to take the baton, the competitor from Cedarville taking the stick from her own teammate just before Norah reached me.

The baton in my hand, I sprinted around the first lap, adrenaline fueling my quick strides.

“Pace!” Norah yelled as I came through the first lap too fast.

Lap two, my legs began to burn, lactic acid flooding my legs as I demanded them to keep racing.

“Let’s go, Lydia!” yelled coach Scott Wilson as I passed him, reminding myself that the race was over halfway done.

I forced my arms to pump, my legs to move even as the pain increased.

Rounding the final curve, my teammates were waiting, screaming encouragement, and I collapsed into their arms.

We had done it. We had raced to a third-place finish.

More than Gold

A relay is a special thing—each person is both supported by and dependent on the races of their teammates. When they succeed, it is a beautiful thing, for it is not just one person celebrating but four. Four people rejoicing in their triumph over pain.

We hugged and smiled and gulped breath back into our lungs, ecstatic that three other teammates we loved would get to join us on the podium.

I looked around at my teammates: Norah, the senior who had guided us through it all. The one who showed leadership through servitude and always gave the team everything she had, no matter how late she got back from working at the hospital. Natali, the powerhouse of positivity and brightness, who made even the worst days better. Alexis, the rock of encouragement and calm, who never failed to listen.

Even if we had not placed, the teammates alongside me were worth more than every gold medal combined.