Vachon Imagined

The first time I realized I couldn’t keep up with the boys, I was 24 years old.

Yes, I know. Kind of late in the game. But I arrived nonetheless.

I had just joined the Army, and I swear, some small, delusional part of me thought I might not actually have to get my hands dirty. I was a Signals Intelligence Analyst, the smart kids who break codes and do mysterious things with numbers.

Only, let’s be clear: I barely passed the test.

I made it through Advanced Individual Training by the slippery, very slippery skin of my wee teeth.

But physically? That was different.

I was always placed in the advanced groups for physical fitness because, while I couldn’t always identify patterns of shapes and numbers that made absolutely no sense to me, I could run.

That I could do.

Running was my thing.

Unfortunately, the Army had apparently neglected to inform me that the people I would be running alongside were built like telephone poles.

Put me next to a 6’3″ man and suddenly I was Rudy—with less fanfare, no inspirational soundtrack, and absolutely no Notre Dame movie deal.

I was determined to keep up with the boys, though.

And the boys were not shy about letting me know how much they appreciated this commitment.

They told me that running with me was giving them shin splints because I was so short they had to reduce their strides to mere kicks.

Imagine being so short that your existence becomes a lower-body injury for a grown man.

Ah, such is life.

This continued throughout training.

Forced ruck marches for miles. Forty pounds on my back. Forty.

At five feet tall, I was essentially carrying another human being who had decided to become a backpack.

I would be running while everyone else was walking, because apparently I had something to prove to the entire male population of the United States Army.

And then there were the moments when I bent over under the weight of that ruck, only to get knocked onto my back like a turtle.

Except turtles presumably have the dignity of being able to right themselves.

I had to ask my battle buddy to help me up.

“Could you flip me over?”

Nothing says military readiness quite like requiring assistance to return to an upright position.

Meanwhile, the guys were casually walking along, barely breaking a sweat, talking about sports and whose girlfriend was hotter.

You see, when you first join basic training, at least in my experience, you’re surrounded by women. Then they break you into platoons, squads, and eventually military occupational specialties.

People get sick.

People can’t pass PT.

People get reassigned.

And suddenly you’re looking around thinking:

Wait.

Where did all the women go?

It felt less like joining the Army and more like someone had dropped me in the desert and said, “Good luck. There are no familiar faces, no water, and everyone here thinks football is a personality.”

I was the odd girl out.

No one looked like me.

No one talked like me.

No one thought like me.

And I was lonely.

But that loneliness did something to me.

It made me determined to prove myself.

The problem was, I was trying to prove something that couldn’t be proven.

The fact was: I could not do what these men did.

I couldn’t outrun them.

Now, there were a few I could outrun, but let’s be honest, I happen to believe those particular gentlemen weren’t trying very hard and had eaten too many potato chips.

I’m just saying.

But the things I could do better?

I held onto those like a child clutching her favorite toy while her siblings tried to take it.

Those things got me through.

And I think that’s where we get ourselves into trouble in life.

We live in a world that tells us, “If you just put your mind to it, you can do anything.”

And that’s a beautiful idea.

It’s also, occasionally, complete bullshit.

Because there is another little word we don’t like to talk about.

Can’t.

Once we get past the psychological trauma of not being accepted, once we stop desperately trying to prove that we belong, we have to confront something much more liberating:

There are things we simply cannot do.

And that’s okay.

There were women in the Army who could keep up with the men. Absolutely.

But they met the standard.

No one lowered it for them.

And voilà, now you’ve met the roughly one percent of human beings who make you want to throw in the towel and say, “Well, apparently I am not worthy.”

But most of us are not that one percent.

Most of us have limits.

And some of those limits are not character flaws.

They’re just biology.

I’m five feet tall.

I weigh 115 pounds.

I’m probably not going to become a sumo wrestler.

I’m not going to win a gold medal in basketball unless the Olympic committee introduces a new event called “Standing Near the Basket and Looking Adorable.”

And that’s okay.

Because here’s the thing:

If you’re taking a flight to Germany and don’t want to pay for business class, I’m your girl.

Put me in that economy seat.

Give me the window.

Because while the 6’3″ guy in front of me is folding himself into a human question mark, I will be sitting there with my knees at a 90-degree angle, sleeping like a baby.

Finally, my height has paid off.

That’s the reward.

That’s the point.

We’re not supposed to become good at everything.

We’re supposed to know ourselves well enough to recognize what is ours, and what isn’t.

There are places you simply don’t belong. Jobs you weren’t made for. Rooms where you will always feel like you’re trying to make yourself smaller, louder, smarter, tougher, prettier, or something else entirely just to earn the right to stay.

Stop.

Not every door is yours.

Not every race is yours to win.

Not every room is yours to conquer.

And there is nothing heroic about spending your life trying to prove you can be something you’re not. Sometimes it’s not perseverance. Sometimes it’s just bad common sense with a motivational soundtrack.

The goal isn’t to fit everywhere.

The goal is to find where you fit.

Because there are places you don’t belong, and there are places you absolutely do.

And when you find one of those places, believe me, you’ll know.

You won’t have to perform for acceptance. You won’t have to keep proving yourself. You won’t have to contort yourself into something you’re not.

You’ll just fit.

That’s the real work: accepting the places you don’t belong so you can recognize the places where you do.

And when you find yours?

Stay there.

You’ve earned the right to stop running.