More Than What the Numbers Say

My heart sank at the beginning of last year’s track season, when I suddenly realized that my mile time had slowed down by a whole minute.

It shouldn’t have caught me by surprise. Throughout that whole school year, my times had followed a slow—but steady—pattern of increasing. I finished my first race in the fall at a pace that I would never again hold that school year.

I was getting weaker, and yet I hadn’t noticed that signs. But I had seen the numbers. I had seen them increase, despite all the training that I had done in the hopes of getting them lower.

My times didn’t decrease—only my confidence. These numbers became an obsession, one that completely blinded my view of where my health was headed.

Whenever I ran a race at a slower pace than I had hoped, I would “make up for it” by forcing myself to run more miles. And when I couldn’t run as many miles as I had wanted, I would force myself to go swim practice afterward. And when I didn’t make the intervals at swim practice, I would force myself to train even more the next day.

I found that I could force myself to do a lot, even at my breaking point, if it meant “making up” for a debt that I seemed to think I owed.

My life became a constant, blurry struggle of trying to satisfy the numbers floating around in my head.

On a deeper level, my life became a struggle of identity and trying to satisfy my own insecurities.

The numbers were my chains

The numbers became an indicator of my worth. They became my chains, always there to weigh me down, to remind me that I would never be enough.

And these numbers weren’t just in my race times and mileage. They were in my report cards and my test grades. They were in counting calories and stepping on the scale, trying to get out of malnourishment and back to a healthy weight.

Whenever I started to run, my legs would feel heavy and I would struggle to catch my breath. My iron deficiency had disrupted my body’s function.

But in my heart, I also felt that heaviness and that breathlessness. It was as if my chains were causing me to sink deeper and deeper into an ocean.

And it wasn’t until I was too far under the surface that I realized my situation. I was lost, I was sinking, and I couldn’t drag myself out.

But that didn’t mean that I couldn’t be found again. It didn’t mean that I would never reach the shore. Eventually I could let my feet fly across the ground again, wind at my back, running strong and running free.

But coming out of my situation called for a process.

I had to defy the numbers head-on. Part of that required lowering my mileage. For over a month, I could only run two miles twice a week. I didn’t want to do it at the time. I didn’t even think it was the right approach at the time.

Defying the numbers felt so wrong. I felt as if I were defying some part of myself. I had previously placed my confidence in my consistently-high mileage.

Running two miles twice a week? That wasn’t me. And it certainly wasn’t who I wanted to become.

The numbers don’t define you

But going through that process brought me to a place where I realized how much the numbers truly don’t matter. The realization didn’t happen instantly. I still sometimes would—and do—find myself getting caught up in what the numbers say, but…

The numbers don’t define me.

They never did.

And they don’t define you, either.

We live in a society that has become so intrinsically connected with numbers. PRs and state rankings. Test grades and report cards. Social media views and likes. Dress sizes and weights on the scale. Salaries and net worth. The list goes on…

But that list—It doesn’t change who you are. The numbers don’t change who you are.

And yet it’s so easy to get obsessed. It’s so easy to place your worth in what the numbers say. It’s so easy to let those numbers be your chains.

I’ve felt it myself.

I’ve had moments in which I felt the pressure of trying to be perfect—trying to satisfy the numbers. Hitting the right marks seemed to fill me with this sort of relief, this sort of freedom…

But it wasn’t real. It was empty, and it was temporary.

So, so temporary.

Chains breaking

I’ve realized that I’m never going to be completely, wholly, perfectly satisfied with myself. Ever. There’s always going to be another mark to try and hit, and another place to fall flat on my face in failure.

And somehow, those unreachable goals, and especially those failures, can feel like a price that must be paid.

We “all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God” (Rom. 3:23), and perfectionism displays a greater understanding of our own falling short. But it’s also a misunderstanding of the solution.

Perfectionism displays a greater understanding of our own falling short. But it’s also a misunderstanding of the solution.

The solution has never lain in ourselves. It has never lain in satisfying the numbers.

It has always rested in the hands of a Savior Who will give that freedom to whomever seeks it.

I may never be satisfied with myself, but I can find satisfaction in Him. The One Who paid all my debts is the One Who has broken my chains.

If the numbers have been your chains, if you’ve felt the weight of trying to satisfy an emptiness that you weren’t meant to fill, I want to encourage you to seek Him.

He’s waiting for you to be found. And maybe perfectionism, or all the numbers, is His way of guiding you back to Him.

That’s what He did in me. Bringing me to such a point of weakness, stripping away my false sense of self, taking away what I had wrongly placed my hope, identity, and confidence in…

That worked something in my heart that couldn’t have happened any other way.

1 out of 99

If you feel lost in the middle of an ocean, sinking with the weight of those chains, you will not stay there forever.

You will run free on the shore again.

Because God is willing to go out of His way and drag you out of your place in the water. He sees you where you are, and He sees you as more than just a number.

Think of the parable of the lost sheep. One missing sheep out of a hundred shouldn’t matter, right? One lost soul, one hurting heart, out of millions, shouldn’t matter, right?

And yet it does.

It matters to God. He always sees you.

If you take a look at the night sky, you’ll easily see that there are far too many stars to count. And some of those stars shine brighter than others.

Not all of the stars in the sky have been numbered or named by scientists. Many aren’t even visible from where we stand.

“He determines the number of the stars
    and calls them each by name.”

~Psalm 147:4, ESV

Only the prominent stars are called by name on this Earth. But their Creator in heaven has numbered them all. He sees them all.

Even the ones that are struggling to shine.

Even the fallen stars.

He calls them all by name.

Psalm 147:4 expresses an even more beautiful truth when read in context.

“He heals the brokenhearted
    and binds up their wounds.”

~Psalm 147:3, ESv

I love how, right before saying that God numbers all the stars, the psalmist chose to talk about God’s healing. It’s a perfect reminder of how God sees the fallen stars, and the ones that don’t shine as bright. He sees the broken hearts that may otherwise go unseen.

He sees them, and He bandages their wounds—wounds that the world may never see or stop to help.

Where you fit in

To the world, someone who’s hurting is just another statistic. Just another person struggling—another person out of so many others.

Just another little star in a galaxy teeming with them.

The global population just recently hit eight billion, and…

Do you ever wonder where you fit into that?

I live in the city, and it’s easy to feel lost amidst all the people there. But when I come to the desert and find myself staring up at a wide night sky, or to the country looking at the fields stretching on for miles…

Or when I stand on that all-so-familiar shore, where the Pacific ocean fades into the horizon line and goes on for what seems like eternity…

I also feel so small.

Even when you’re alone, standing face-to-face with the beauty of the world, you can feel so small. I just came back from a trip to the Rockies, and looking up at the mountaintops, with peaks too high for even the snow-dusted evergreens to grow, took my breath away.

I felt so small, but I also felt as if I were a part of something bigger.

And we are, really—We all have a place in that bigger picture of God’s plan.

We all have been intentionally placed in this bigger galaxy of life to reach certain parts with our light. And we all shine that light in different ways.

Falling out of place

When I first started writing this article up in a hotel room with that view of the mountains, I didn’t realize how relevant it would become for me in the week home that followed.

I had an awful race last Saturday—one of those races that made me question everything about this sport and my identity. When I crossed the finish line, I saw this large number displaying my time—It was well over a minute off pace.

And if I’m being honest, seeing that number came as a huge discouragement. But what hurt even more was coming in last. I felt embarrassed, and I felt so many reminders of last year’s season, when I came in last every single mile.

I don’t want to go back to where I found myself a year ago.

But I’m being honest, I let the numbers become my chains again. Failure hurts like that.

And every fall can make it feel like you’ve fallen out of your place.

But that’s not true.

Falls happen. Skinned knees and scraped shins happen (I got some myself during a relay last week!). And they hurt.

But they don’t define you. And I know that it can be simple to tell yourself that in your head, and yet difficult to believe that within your own heart. I’ve been feeling that myself lately.

Sometimes, the truth doesn’t feel, well… true.

And that’s painful. Feelings are painful. But what they say isn’t true.

And what the numbers say isn’t true, either. And I’m standing in a place with my own struggles—struggles with feelings and failures and numbers—as I tell you this:

A number can’t say how strong you are. It can’t say where you’ve been, or where you’re going.

A number can’t determine who you are, and a number can’t determine what you’re worth.

The numbers can’t tell your story.

Who do the numbers say you are? Second place? First in rank? Dead last? Destined to fail?

But who does the Author of the Universe say you are?

Whenever I find myself on the ground, that last question is where I want to start as I get back up.