“On your mark, go!” Adrenaline shot through me from all directions and my feet pounded on the newly cut grass. I could hear the heavy, but quick breathing of my teammates. All of a sudden, I saw a man that was neither my coach, nor my father, but whose opinion mattered to me more than anyone else. He could see the guilt and betrayal in my eyes as I ran by. His eyes, full of empty accusations, made me run even faster, as if I were prey. When I crossed the 800 meter mark, I cried- not tears of exhaustion, but tears of shame.

The man, who I called ‘sheikh,’ (religious teacher) cared for me like no one else had before in my entire life. I came to him every Sunday with my homework done and my religious texts memorized. He smiled when he saw my completed homework and heard my perfect recitations. One day, after our final recitation for the day, he told me with a smirk, “Sarah, you are too perfect; it is okay to make mistakes.” Soon enough, he would realize that I, indeed, made mistakes.

After the race, I knew what he now thought of me. In his mind, I was no longer the girl who was too hard on herself or too perfect. I was the girl who committed a crime that was, in his eyes, unforgivable. I wore shorts. I showed my hair. This was something that was strictly forbidden in the eyes of my sheikh and I openly contradicted it. I should have been modest. I should have been fully covered in proper Islamic attire. I had indeed betrayed him and his teachings; I was a hypocrite.

I could no longer sleep at night, his unwavering and unforgiving eyes continued to haunt me day after day. I continued to think of how to regain his trust, but I knew it was pointless because the deed was done and nothing could change the truth. When Sunday finally arrived, I did not show up to his class, I was too ashamed to show myself to him.

Later that day, I saw the car pull into the driveway with my brother returning from Sunday school. As I stared through the window at the empty seat where I should have sat with my brother, a tear rolled down my face. I could almost imagine myself coming from Sunday school and telling my mother of the praises I had received from my sheikh. Instead, I felt emptiness.

The next Sunday, I went to his class with my homework completed, my recitations memorized, and my headscarf tied. And of all things, I firmly wore my cross country shirt, without any regret. Once I entered the door of my sheikh’s class, he could see the conviction and respect in my eyes as I looked into his eyes, still full of empty accusations. The deed was done. As I left the classroom, I felt the weight of expectations lift off my shoulders as I walked with a perfect posture and a grin on my face.