I looked at it: a long, hard, rectangle wrapped in shiny paper. I turned it over in my hands, wondering what it possibly could be as my friends, sitting in a large cluster at my feet, looked up at me in excitement.

I tore the paper off and there it was: a collage of pictures of me. Me in motion, running in my familiar green and white cross-country uniform at meets both freshman and sophomore year. I felt a lump in my throat as I admired the gift and thought about how far I’d come. Now I was running over three miles regularly; just two years before, I couldn’t even walk.

Before that fateful day, I was a normal 13-year-old, carefree and a bit naive, both excited and nervous for my last year of middle school. Running, especially long distances, was everything to me. I enjoyed the sensation of my feet hitting the ground and feeling it align with the rhythm of my breathing. I enjoyed the subtle aches and pains throughout my body, because it made me feel strong and accomplished. I enjoyed feeling free most of all, like I was flying. That was why I competed in races, and why I had practiced all summer. I loved my sport, and I was excited to improve.

On August 16, I woke up that same middle school girl, but by the end of the day, excruciating pain shot through my upper body, and I had lost the ability to move my arms or even sit up. I couldn’t walk, which meant that I couldn’t run. My dreams of being a marathon runner, of even being on the cross-country team that year, were shattered.

My body had turned on itself and attacked the protective myelin sheath on my spinal cord. It left my spine damaged in many places. I was in pain and paralyzed. The condition is called transverse myelitis, and my neurologist expected the outcome to be bleak: my chances of walking, sitting, or moving my arms again were slim. The damage was just too extreme.

I was determined to prove the diagnosis wrong. I knew even then that miracles were possible. I worked hard in therapy and walked independently out of the hospital, leaving wheelchairs and gait belts behind.

Back at home, I had physical therapy twice a week. It helped, and within a year I had worked up to running again. I joined the cross-country team my freshman year and improved every day. Eventually, I realized that running had benefited me in more ways than physical therapy ever could have. I immersed myself in the sport and pushed myself harder than anywhere else, simply because I loved it. Despite the incredible pain and fatigue it caused my damaged body, I was determined to do the sport I loved.

I thought about all of this as I looked at the gift I had received for my sixteenth birthday. I knew I’d grown since the beginning of freshman year, but I didn’t know just how much until I admired that collage of pictures. In one snapshot, I was skinny and atrophied from my illness. In the next, taken just a year later, I radiated strength, both physical and mental. Not only did I know that I could run, but that I could achieve anything I put my mind to.

The morning after my party, I looked for a place to hang this meaningful gift. I chose the wall right across from my bed, which already displayed my running bibs and medals, so I could wake up every morning and be reminded how much this sport has done for me.