Silver Medal Girls

We leaned against each other on a cushioned bench, laughter fading into a breeze that stirred the lupine at the edge of the rooftop garden. Sienna clutched her floral summer cocktail in one hand, beads of condensation from the glass sliding down her wrist. Her feet were propped casually on the lap of a bearded man who was leaning forward and animatedly telling a story to the small group of listeners. His body was angled away from her, toward his spectators, who clung hungrily to his every word. He was spinning a love story, the tale of how he met and fell in love with his soulmate. Sienna laughed along with the rest, gasping in surprise at all the right moments. But where others might have seen stars in her eyes, I saw tears sparkling in the corners. Such a small, fleeting sign that it was hard to believe it could be the only manifestation of the devastation inside. How do you mask the torture of watching a love of your life explain how he met the love of his? A man who only weeks ago was pulling you into dark corners and drinking you in with languid kisses. A man you lost a week of time with to a maelstrom of passion. A man who held you tenderly, talked of the future, and turned your name into sweet puns. This was now a man who absently stroked your ankle while describing his girlfriend's curves. A man who expected you to remain rapt and carefree while describing how he would propose to this new siren. A man whose seductive words had morphed into sharp barbs, thrown at you teasingly as if to periodically remind you of your new place in his world. You were his last fling. A disposable party favor from that wildest bender known as dating. You were a lover, but not loved. You were perfect, but not for him. You were chosen, but not forever. You were the silver medal girl.

In life's colosseum of competition, silver medalists go unseen. The world celebrates the victor on top of the podium with a gold medal around her neck and a gold band around her finger. The silver medal girl is given the gift of invisibility. Her story slipping out of the pages of the history books, dissolving into the sands of time. And yet, I would argue that these women are among the strongest of them all. The fiercest warriors. The most resilient competitors. What tenacity does it take to pick yourself up over and over again, reenetering the race that has never given you glory? Charging tirelessly toward a finish line that may not exist. Continuing to run on screaming muscles and broken hearts, losing to women with perfect bodies who are half your age. What intransigence must be required to leap back into a foray that has only ever brought you pain?  To watch your lover fall for another and set them free with grace and dignity. To smile at the man who spurned you for your lack of beauty. To laugh at the man who thought you too independent and feral. To dance at the wedding of the man you still loved. What nerve to stare down the keen edges of a sword, knowing that by entering yet another round with openness and vulnerability, you are risking impalement on the blade. To position your breast over the steel, knowing your soul will shred when he inevitably thrusts you aside for the nubile temptress who worships with helplessness as his alter of ego. What courage to face the years alone with vitality and vigor instead of settling for a tepid approximation of desire. What fortitude to see your soulmates fall in love with you in the rearview mirror, but instead of caving in to lust and destiny, committing to helping them to honor their marriage vows. What sublime persistence to keep allowing yourself to fall, when you have never been caught. A resplendent delusion that you will some day be seen, your heart will be chosen, your name will be called.

And while the gold medalists rest on their laurels, coasting on their vows of forever, the silver medal girls continue to train in the shadows, growing toward the light. They learn new skills, seek out new passions, hoping to one day be deemed "enough". Silver is the softer, more malleable of metals, but when forged with new alloys over time it can alchemize into a substance as strong as steel. And so too will these women transform. In the hunt for that coveted first place, the never ending pursuit of being chosen, they become more diversely competent, more beautifully adept. Repeated rejection forges the wildest, most transcendent of beings. Women who can breath fire into life, then walk through it unscathed. Women so used to facing life alone, they become unafraid to travel solo to the ends of the earth, wade into uncharted waters, and taste the flagrant, foreign spice of true freedom. Women who create inspired art out of erotic appetite, lascivious adventure out of the mundane, and sumptuous friendships out of girls with holes in their hearts. These women, who men have overlooked and society views with pity, are the true victors. That ravenous flame of Olympic light that will burn long after the rest have melted into the darkness.

And so I choose you. My silver medal girls. As Apollo honored Daphne, I wish for you immortal hope, evergreen resilience, and a wreath of laurels to celebrate your triumph. You are not one half of a whole, forever searching. You are a beautiful savage with a name of your own and a future on fire. A fierce goddess with a heart full of song and moirai steeped in passion. The world loves you as you are. You are already chosen. My silver medal girls.