It hasn’t quite sunk in yet. Part of this new world order (for me) is being realistic about my successes. Yes, I ran faster than ever in a race that I don’t usually run; yes, I ran the fastest time of any American in an obscure race; yes, my workouts were going better than they’ve ever gone, my body was stronger and fitter than it’s ever been, my whole life is happier, overall. But before Saturday, the biggest goal still eluded me: I hadn’t run MY race yet, the one that I specialize in, the only one I have a chance to make an Olympic team in, the race my sponsors pay me to be good at.

Here it was. A beautiful, bright day in New York City. Last year, this race was gray and rainy, so chilly that the best athletes in the race let the pace lapse, didn’t give us Americans the opportunity to run fast.

I worked hard to control the anxiety leading up to stepping out on the track. It doesn’t do to have nervous attacks throughout the day— it wastes too much energy. I went over the race plan in my head, read and reread messages from my coach. “You’re prepared,” he reassured me.

The gun went off. I turned off my brain. You know that part that registers fear and pain? It was blissfully silent for 3000 meters and 35 barriers. I followed the fastest girls in the race, was right on their shoulders— I have no business being here, but I am a completely different athlete than I’ve ever been, no one has seen this version of Stephanie Garcia, fierce and fit and wildly confident. It was a gamble— it could all blow up in my face and I could wind up crawling in, DFL and embarrassed, plans shattered. Or I could finish strong(ish) and walk away with my fastest time ever. Turn off your brain and let the cards fall where they may.

It took three years— three years!!— but I broke through. I trimmed 13 seconds off my previous “personal best,” ran the second fastest time for an American this year, reminded people that I’m still here. What changed? Everything. And nothing. This has been in me all along.