I had my mouth pressed into the sand. I was breathing hard—desperate, shallow, uneven. I could feel the grains entering my nose, throat, and lungs. Somewhere nearby, I heard the rapid thudding of hooves, the panicked exhale of a frightened horse. For a moment, I couldn’t remember where I was. I couldn’t piece it together. The memories didn’t come in order; they arrived like broken glass, sharp and disjointed. My helmet. My shoulder. The ground. Pain. Sharp pain. A blinding throb in my knee.

I didn’t mean to cry. I hadn’t decided to. I don’t cry without thinking about it first. I always weigh it, time it, and calculate whether I deserve to cry. But the tears came anyway, without warning, without permission. They ran down my cheeks, cutting through the sand, sweat, and blood. I was still lying there, still on the ground. I could feel the tears tracing the freckles on my face.

Wake up, Camilla. Wake up. Get up. You must keep going.

But I couldn’t. Something was wrong with my knee. I tried to move, but I couldn’t. I opened my eyes, and it all came back. I had been jumping; I was competing. I had gauged the distance and positioned my legs. Then—nothing. I must have fainted. I don’t recall the fall or the impact. Just darkness, followed by this: the immense weight of the earth pressing against me and the distant sound of Deesse’s hooves.

Panic.

I swallowed the tears. I looked up. She was limping. More panic. And yet I didn’t move. I couldn’t. What was the point? Why try to get up again? Everything hurt. I was tired. Not just my body—my soul. I was drained, empty, done. But then she turned. She looked at me. And she walked toward me.

She was scared. Her eyes were asking me something—Are you okay? What just happened? I wanted to tell her that I didn’t know. That I was scared, too. I was terrified.

But I had to stand for her.

Get up for her.

I got up. I started running. Somehow, I ran. The adrenaline must have carried me. I couldn’t feel my knee anymore. I couldn’t feel my shoulder, the blood from my nose, or the cracked helmet on my head. I just ran. I saw the reins tangled around her leg. I bent down to untangle them, and the pain came rushing back—my knee screaming at me. But I didn’t care. She came first.

I whispered to her. I apologized. I told her I was sorry, even though I didn’t know for what. I led her out of the arena and handed her to my coach. I was shaking. She was fine. She hadn’t been hurt. That’s all I needed to know.

And then I was surrounded. People. Voices. Strangers.

What happened? What’s going on? Why are they looking at me like that?

I’ve always had everything under control. Always.

“Are you hurt?” someone asked. Their voice felt far away.

I was still trying to process it. “What happened? What the hell happened?”

Pain? No, I didn’t feel pain. I don’t allow myself to.

“What’s your name?”

“Camilla.” The word felt unfamiliar, like it belonged to someone else.

My knee hurts. Sharp and deep. I took off my helmet. It was cracked clean through.

“Deesse? How is she?” I asked.

“She’s okay,” my coach said. “But what about you?”

“I’m fine.”

I wasn’t.

I tried to walk away. My leg gave out. They stopped me.

Ice. Tape. Medical terms are thrown around like darts.

X-rays. Ligament. Tendon. Dislocation.

Stop.

I screamed. Loud. Raw. The sound surprised even me. That wasn’t me.

I didn’t want to hear any more. I didn’t want to know. I just wanted to rewind the day and sleep.

But I couldn’t.

I had fallen. And I didn’t know how.

Flashback

Before that day, my descent had already begun—just more silently. I walked across campus with a backpack feeling heavier than it should. My legs ached, and my mind was cloudy. I was headed to another office hour for a class I felt ill-equipped for. A class that I had no prior knowledge of. A class that had consumed me completely. Fear gripped me—of failing and not comprehending, of not measuring up. My headphones rested on my ears, but no music played; my thoughts drowned out any potential sound. They spiraled endlessly, a tempest of unfinished tasks, looming deadlines, unread chapters, and unresolved equations. I moved through space, yet I wasn’t present.

My body operated on autopilot while my mind wandered elsewhere, ensnared in pressures, expectations, and the anxiety of falling short of who I believed I should be. A message from my mother appeared. Sent at 3 a.m. her time, I glanced at it, feeling a pang of guilt. I didn’t open it, just as I hadn’t opened the last few. “Mom, I’m sorry,” I thought. “Right now, I can’t accommodate anyone—myself included.” I arrived at the classroom, sat down, and opened my notes, uncertain when I would complete them. I never do. There’s always another assignment, another test, another expectation to meet.

Live in the present, I told myself. Hic et nunc. But I hadn’t looked in a mirror in weeks. I’d rush from class to riding, from labs to events. I was always moving. But more than that, I was constantly proving.

That I was smart.

That I was strong.

That I could do it all.

But sometimes I looked at my notebook and saw scribbles—nonsense I had written while drifting off in class. I had fallen asleep mid-sentence. I used physics textbooks as pillows. I had turned Maxwell’s laws into lullabies in the library.

Around me, people smiled and laughed. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d smiled for real. The last time I hugged someone and felt it. I needed someone. I needed warmth. I needed to stop.

But I didn’t.

I didn’t even know what day it was. But I knew my schedule. I knew my horse’s rhythm. I knew the exact time of every lecture, every lab, and every deadline.

People told me I was inspiring. I smiled, awkward and uneasy. If I were their role model, they would be in trouble. I felt like I was slipping.

I hadn’t eaten. I didn’t sleep. I couldn’t find my hairbrush. My room was chaotic—piles of clothes, stacks of papers, dishes I didn’t remember using. I tried to clean, to find control. But inside, everything was unraveling.

I opened my laptop. Then my iPad. Then a textbook.

“Camilla, go to bed,” I told myself.

But I didn’t.

I kept going.

Just one more hour.

Just one more problem.

Just one more paragraph.

I was terrified of the class. I couldn’t understand something. That never happened.

I searched through manuals. Websites. Forums. I needed to understand.

And then the test came.

I told myself that this time, just being okay was enough.

But it wasn’t. Not for me.

I looked in the mirror. It was late. Or early. I don’t know.

My eyes were tired.

My face was pale.

There were strands of hair on the sink.

I was losing hair.

I tried to wipe it away.

I kept cleaning, wiping, brushing, and organizing.

Trying to fix something.

But I didn’t recognize the person in the reflection.

I turned away.

Back to work.

Now and Today

Then, I fell.

And everything stopped.

It’s only been a few days, but my body echoes the impact. I’ve watched the video of my fall too many times, trying to analyze it the way I’d explore a physics problem or a math proof. I wanted there to be an explanation—a cause.

Eventually, I found it.

I passed out.

I blacked out on a horse. In the middle of a jump. In the middle of a competition.

I had seen the distance. I had felt the rhythm. I had given the signal. And then—nothing.

I lost consciousness. My body slumped forward. I collapsed onto Deesse’s neck. And then I dropped to the ground like dead weight.

All because I pushed too hard. All because I didn’t stop.

Could I have done more? No.

Should I have done less? Yes.

But I didn’t know how.

My knee is bruised and aching. The ligament might be sprained. I don’t know yet. I haven’t taken anatomy. That’s for med school.

I cry every day. Or at least I did. But now the tears are gone.

And still—I ride.

The doctor told me to rest.

But I don’t.

I can’t.

I risk more damage every day.

But I don’t stop.

I titled this essay “I Have Failed” because it’s the truth I’ve been avoiding.

I tried to prove that it was possible to pursue two lives at once—that I could be both a student and a professional league 1 athlete, that I could balance Caltech and competition.

But I couldn’t.

I broke.

My academic life seeped into everything, consumed me, and cost me the one thing I thought was safe—my time with Deesse, my riding, and my peace.

A single assignment. A single string of characters.

That’s all it took to push me over the edge.

That’s all it took to risk my knee.

To lose sleep.

To lose myself.

To cry until I had nothing left.

For a string.

If my ligament had torn…

If I hadn’t stood up from the sand…

If I had stayed down…

I wouldn’t have written this, and I would not be here.

But I did get up.

And I’m still here.

I’m still scared, terrified.

I still see that distance.

And I still remember falling.

But I got up and do not know how to keep up. Maybe I will—I do not know. Stop me one day and tell me to live.