Professional Athlete from the United States
By Ariana Leandry ‘23, Syiah Kuala University Fellow 2023-2025
Returning to Aceh for my second year of my Shansi Fellowship, I felt overwhelmed. Overwhelmed, stressed, guilty. Guilt is a feeling I return to often when reflecting on my time here—whether in conversations with other Shansi Fellows or while talking to my friends back home. I can’t shake the sense that I haven’t accomplished enough. That I leaned too far into the rhythm of island life, moving at my own pace without urgency. Whole days spent in cafés, nights on the guesthouse balcony just watching the palm trees sway, afternoons at the beach with a coloring book. I know things move slower in Aceh, and I’ve tried to embrace that, but there’s still a voice in the back of my mind—the busy Obie in me—whispering that I should be doing more. Some days, that feeling leaves me stuck, unable to bridge the gap between what I set out to accomplish and the slower reality of life here.
As I settled into my room during my first day back, I got a text from my friend Rahmi inviting me to a “race” happening soon in Sabang, an island off the coast of Banda Aceh. Curious, I read the details—apparently, “athletes from around the world” would be gathering to compete in a long-distance and sprinting race. Absolutely not. I screenshotted the flyer and sent it to some friends back home as a joke. One thing about me? I famously don’t run. There are few things I hate more, and I’ve spent my entire life avoiding it. I grew up playing sports, but everyone knew—I did not run. I even managed to get out of running the mile in high school by convincing my counselor I had already completed my gym credits. I cannot stress enough just how much effort I have put into avoiding running.
I glanced at Rahmi’s text again. Free transportation. Free lodging. Free food. And a free T-shirt. I hesitated, then typed, "If I come, do I have to run?" I stared at the message, debating. Honestly, I’m still not sure what possessed me to even consider this. Maybe because the semester had just begun, and for a brief moment, I felt ambitious. The rush of motivation was sudden, fleeting, but strong enough to make me do something impulsive. Before I could overthink it, I typed, "Okay, I’m in." Free T-shirt.
Yes, I had to run. That fact hit me like a truck the moment I officially agreed. Almost instantly, the anxiety set in. What had I just signed up for? I had two weeks until the race and three weeks until I started teaching again, which meant that for the next fourteen days, this impending doom was all I would think about. I started “training” (if you could even call it that), but mostly, I just spammed Rahmi with panicked texts. I’m scared. What if I pass out? What if I come in dead last and everyone laughs? She reassured me over and over, but it didn’t matter at the moment. Every practice run felt like proof that I had made a terrible mistake.
But the more I sat with the anxiety, the more I realized that this wasn’t just about running. The past year had been full of challenges, and I’d struggled to adjust in ways I hadn’t expected. I’d fallen into bad habits—isolating myself, withdrawing when things felt too overwhelming. I’ve been sad. And this race, in some strange way, felt like a confrontation with all of it. Am I doing the right thing? Is being here what I’m supposed to be doing? And, as always, guilt. Guilt for feeling this way when I had been given so much—a community that welcomed me, the privilege to teach and learn abroad with the support I needed to do it. But even with all of that, the sadness and anxiety lingered. The race wasn’t just a physical challenge; it was a mirror, forcing me to face the feelings I had been trying to push away.
The day had come. I headed to the port to board the ferry to Sabang, still only half-understanding what I had gotten myself into. As I waited, a team of people greeted me and handed me my race bag, which included my jersey, number, and a few other things. I glanced at the flyer inside and saw “Aceh International Orienteering.” Orienteering? What?
I had seen the word before, back when Rahmi first sent me the race details, but I hadn’t really thought about it. I just assumed it was some kind of fancy name for the event, not something specific to the race itself. As far as I knew, I had signed up for a sprint, not whatever this was.
Turns out, orienteering is way more than just running. It’s a sport where you use a map and compass to navigate through unfamiliar terrain as quickly as possible. Participants get a topographical map with a compass and have to find control points along the way. This wasn’t just some casual fun run. There were serious competitors, like the team from India I met, athletes who literally travel the world for orienteering. What had I signed up for?
That question fully hit me only as I lay in bed the night before the race. I guessed I needed to learn how to “orienteer.” I pulled out my phone and searched: "How to orienteer." A YouTube video popped up, and I started watching. As the video explained the basics, I realized another issue: Wait… I don’t know how to read a topographical map. No problem—I searched "How to read a topographical map." The tutorial showed a person using a compass to navigate. I paused. Hold on. I’ve never had to use a compass before. Another search: "How to use a compass." The night before my first-ever orienteering race, I found myself cramming as if I was back in college. My strategy for the next day? Blind faith I guess.
I know my writing has led up to this moment, and I wish I had more to say about it. I wish I had documented those two days—the grand opening ceremony with flags from each participating country, the excitement of the races, and the closing ceremony at the end. The first day was the long-distance orienteering race, and the second was the sprint. I wish I could describe, in detail, how I actually finished both races. I wish I had a clear, cinematic story to tell—how someone who had barely run a mile in her life managed to cross both finish lines. And not even in last place. I finished 15th out of 50 in the long distance race. Not too bad. But the truth is, I don’t know how I did it. It all feels like a blur. What I do remember is how I felt. It was hard. Very, very hard. I was exhausted, in pain, and every part of me wanted to quit. I was uncomfortable the entire time. But somehow, I kept going.
And in a way, that’s how my entire first year felt—like a blur. When people ask me about it, I often don’t know what to say. Life here moves slowly, and because of that, the days blend together. I struggle to recall specific moments, not because they weren’t meaningful, but because they felt unhurried, stretched out, drifting by without urgency. I was uncomfortable sometimes. I was so happy sometimes. I was incredibly sad sometimes. Every emotion feels amplified. The months slipped by so quickly, yet each day felt unhurried. It’s a contradiction I still can’t quite explain.
As I took the ferry back to Banda Aceh, sore and exhausted, I flipped through a local Sabang newspaper that had published an article about the races. Skimming the text, I caught a phrase that made me do a double take—"included a professional athlete from the United States." I read it again. Professional athlete. From the United States. Hm. Never thought I’d see those words in that order used to describe me. Me—who had only signed up for this race because of a free T-shirt. And yet, there I was, officially documented in print as a professional athlete.
Before I made it home, Rahmi turned to me and said, “I’m proud of you.” I laughed at first, assuming she was joking. The idea of anyone being proud of me for this felt absurd. I just stumbled my way through those races, barely knowing what I was doing. But then she said it again, this time more firmly. “No, seriously. I am proud of you.”
I almost shrugged it off, ready to make some self-deprecating remark. But then I thought about how terrified I had been, how I had spent weeks spiraling over whether I could even finish, how impossible it had all seemed. And yet, I had done it. And something about Rahmi saying it out loud made it real in a way I hadn’t let myself believe yet.
I never told her this, but that night, when I got back to my room, I broke down crying. A dramatic, sliding down the wall in exhaustion kind of cry. It wasn’t just about the race. It was the weight of the entire past year catching up with me. The moments of loneliness and doubt. The nights I wondered if I had made a mistake, if I was really meant to be here. And yet, through it all, I had stayed. I had made it through. And for the first time in a long time, I let myself feel proud.
Will I ever do orienteering again? …No. Absolutely not. But plot twist—running is part of my life now. Since that race, I run nearly every day. I’ve planned trips with running in mind. I bought a running vest. I have become that person.
I don’t fully understand why I started doing this, but I have my suspicions. Maybe it’s because, for the first time, I’m letting myself believe that I really can overcome things. That I am stronger than I think I am. And there’s something about doing something I once hated—something I convinced myself I couldn’t do—that has changed me. Pushing through that discomfort, proving myself wrong, has made me more confident. In turn, I think it’s made me a better person, a better community member, a better friend. And I’m so thankful to this fellowship for giving me that.
Running makes everything feel a little less overwhelming. On my daily runs, I connect with community members, with the neighborhood cats, with myself. I feel present in my body and in this city in a way I hadn’t before.
Like the race, I am eternally glad I pushed through. Of course, I could have done things differently. I could have prepared more, done more. But adjusting to something new—whether it’s a race or an entirely different way of life—is never easy. Maybe that’s the point.