The Observer
By: Dorothy Adablah
Life isn’t a race won by how fast you bolt from the gate. Some crackle like wildfires at dawn, reduced to smoke by noon. Others smolder, slow and steady, until their blaze outshines the sun.
Don’t let the sprint of others hijack your stride. You don’t know what wolves they’re fleeing—or what empty hunger drives them. Stop. Turn around. Stare down the beast that’s chasing you. Is it fear? Regret? Survival? Name it. Then run like hell… or stand and fight.
And if you glance sideways to see someone sauntering with a turtle, don’t you dare slow your feet. Their road is paved with daisies; yours might be slick with lion’s breath. Run your race. This is no rehearsal. Life doesn’t care about fairness—it demands your teeth, your grit, your refusal to let the hunt break you.
When the grind stalls you, when your legs scream and the finish line fades: Stop. Breathe ash. Rethink your armor. Shed principles that weigh you down; strap on new ones forged in failure’s furnace. But never—never—drop your compass.
The path will writhe. Storms will lie. Lions will roar. But you? You’ll outpace, outlast, outgrow. Because the race isn’t about speed—it’s about who you become while running.
