When I first walked through the doors of Prep, I wasn’t stepping outside my comfort zone. Sure, I only knew two or three people, but I assumed—like always—social situations would come naturally. I smiled, stayed in my lane, and waited for things to fall into place. But I learned quickly that comfort zones aren’t meant to be waited out.
They’re meant to be stepped out of.
A few months into freshman year, I challenged myself to get involved for the first time, even when it felt easier to fade into the background. I often found myself being left out of post-dance festivities and group hangouts. It felt like I never got the memo.
I remember being one of three girls at Freshman homecoming pre-party who did not have a date. While trivial, it felt as if it only pushed me further to the outside. I was confused…in school I had friends, but it was almost as if they’d disappeared off the plaza.
It wasn’t until I made an effort in my relationships—asking others to hang out instead of waiting around, making plans, forging new friendships—that I finally felt at home at Prep. I’d quickly learned that stepping outside my comfort zone, while at first very awkward and daunting, paid off quickly.
Junior year brought another opportunity to choose discomfort. I turned down a spot on JV soccer—a sport I’d played for years and that defined many of my friendships—to try cross country. If someone had told my younger self that one day I’d voluntarily choose to race a 5k for fun—or even a half or full marathon—I would’ve laughed in their face.
But now? I love running so much that I have to stop myself from talking about it.
Cross country became more than a sport: it became my outlet. From the first practice, it became my “everything,” something soccer honestly never was, but something I’d tried to convince myself was.
Almost every Tuesday and Thursday for two seasons of cross-country, I was forced to conquer the infamous “Lower Woodland Hills.” Although I’d taken on these hills countless times prior through practices and previous races, each race or workout was a fresh experience, a chance to “embrace the discomfort.” Each time I ascended “Widow Maker”—the first hill—a teammate or coach was there, cheering me on. However, often somewhere on the next few hills, I found myself alone with my thoughts, a pounding heart, heavy legs, and an aching chest.
Somewhere along that trail and in those years, I became comfortable with discomfort—not just the physical kind, but the mental kind too. Running those hills taught me the importance of resilience…and that with the right mindset, I can push through any challenge.
Another important truism I realized is that crossing the line of comfort into discomfort didn’t always appear big and bold from the outside. Spending two weeks in Ecuador working in mobile health clinics, while an objectively incredible experience, felt natural. It was the seemingly less intimidating moments, the ones nobody sees, that truly challenged—and continue to challenge—me. Like learning to sit still with myself. Or remembering to enjoy the process, not just chase the result.
That’s the hardest part, really. I’ve always been so focused on the next thing—the next mile, the next issue, the next school—that I forget to be present. But what Prep has taught me is that growth happens in the now. It happens in the messy, middle moments that don’t make it into our resumes or on our social media platforms.
I won’t pretend I’ve mastered this. In fact, I wish I’d have figured it out way sooner. Because here I am—with one day left on campus—and I’m wondering how it all went by so fast. My fatal flaw, once again, got the better of me: I rushed toward the destination before even starting to appreciate the journey.
Still, if there’s one thing I’ve gained from these four years, it’s the gift of self-awareness. I know this will always be something I have to work on. But I also know I’m getting better day by day, mile by mile.
So, to the next generation of Prep students: Don’t wait for things to get comfortable. Step outside your zone. The race doesn’t start when the gun goes off. It starts when you decide to show up.
And trust me—there’s joy in every step.
