But my tears weren't just for the race. I was five years into my life as a prisoner’s wife, living largely in the margins of my days, on the corner of embarrassment and shame – a cliche played out statistic. I saw the runner and wondered, "Why don't I have that kind of resilience?"

For so much of my life, I felt I had been the baton, dropped, sometimes  left behind but always at the mercy of others, feeling like I didn't matter, like people didn't see me. But this time, while unexpectedly watching the circles of my life, I wanted to be the runner. I wanted to be the person who picked up the baton, who carried on, who made the decisions.

For that track team, the dream of winning a gold medal was lost. But for me, the moment was no less golden. 

Living as the supporting character in someone else’s story was no longer an option. I needed to find my own way and my own voice. Have you ever felt this way? Like you were doing everything right, but still falling short of your own expectations? Like you were invisible in your own skin even when you showed up daily and took on the world?

Months later, I founded an organization for partners separated by incarceration, giving them the platform to tell their stories. There I was, a leader of mostly women, some afraid to come out into the open and some jumping at the opportunity if only someone went first. What I noticed is that when I started sharing, my community showed up. It was as if my willingness to be seen gave others permission to do the same. My story was their story even when the details were nothing alike.