Some people run the race with long, easy, steady strides. They are the lucky ones. They were born on the starting line. Their whole lives can be measured on a straight and narrow lane.
But I spent the first thirty years of my life trying to find the stadium. Should I be judged if i trail behind, if i take stumbling steps.
This crowd will judge me on the race they see me running, which I will not win. But somewhere there must be some other judge who will see something other than losers in those that stumble, those that are last over the line. Somewhere there is a rostrum on which we will stand and instead of the stadiums fickle applause we will relieve a better and more lasting welcome. For we ran when no one was looking and when we could not run, we crawled.
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