The Olympics are always full of these stories of people overcoming great obstacles to triumph or the vision of the Phelpsian peak of human existence.  But there is one story that I haven’t been able to shake, one story that seems more important than the others somehow.

It’s a story of failure.

Unless one is under the age of 17, we pretty much know that most of us are not bound for celebrity and fame, most of us will not become millionaires or rock stars, and most of us will never dramatically change the world.  And we can tell how much we’ve ‘grown’ by how much we’ve gotten past our need to be important and significant on a national or global scale.

Growing up is growing into the deeper understanding of what truly is important and how we actually  fit into the fabric of life as we know it.  We see first hand how celebrity and fame and fortune do not equate to happiness and all it takes is one look at Michael Jackson to see that money can’t buy what really matters.

It’s how you live when no one  is watching, that reveals the truth of your spirit.

For every 200m medalist, for every “Sports Illustrated” cover, for every record broken, there are legions of athletes who fall behind.  Athletes in America are pretty lucky; they can devote a decade to their Olympic ambition and have the best trainers, equipment, and environment.

It was sheer happenstance that I came across the story of the Somalian runners.  They, Samia Yusuf Omar and Abdi Said Ibrahim, were not treated to a “Cool Runnings” treatment of their failure.  They ran, they lost, were forgotten.

As a cameraman panned down the starting blocks, it settled on lane No. 2, on a 17-year old girl with the frame of a Kenyan distance runner. Samia’s biography in the Olympic media system contained almost no information, other than her 5-foot-4, 119-pound frame. There was no mention of her personal best times and nothing on previous track meets. Somalia, it was later explained, has a hard time organizing the records of its athletes.

She looked so odd and out of place among her competitors, with her white headband and a baggy, untucked T-shirt. The legs on her wiry frame were thin and spindly, and her arms poked out of her sleeves like the twigs of a sapling. She tugged at the bottom of her shirt and shot an occasional nervous glance at the other runners in her heat. Each had muscles bulging from beneath their skin-tight track suits. Many outweighed Samia by nearly 40 pounds.

-Charles Robinson

Samia was the slowest female runner in a group of 46 women.  By the time she crossed the finish line, half the people in the stadium had already left because no one noticed she was still out there…running her heart out. 

By all accounts, Samia failed.  At 17 years old, she leaves the Olympics with little fanfare and almost no attention.  “I have my pride” she said.  She will grace no magazine covers, will make no endorsement deals.  She will return to a country that has been ripping itself apart since 1991, a country that has no money for facilities and training, a country that can barely feed its populace – much less its athletes. 

And, because she is a women in a majority Muslim country, many feel that she is an abomination.

She is often bullied and threatened by militia or locals who believe that Muslim women should not take part in sports. In hopes of lessening the abuse, she runs in the oppressive heat wearing long sleeves, sweat pants and a head scarf. Even then, she is told her place should be in the home – not participating in sports.

Yet, Samia persisted.    She ran in pockmarked streets, past burning tires, and often survived on bread and water.  And still she ran.  She was completely misplaced in the Olympic games; a fact that she did not realize until she was mid-run.  The Somalian Olympic Federation sent Samia, a middle distance runner, to a 200-meter heat.  Yet still she ran.

The odds were stacked against her and, no small wonder, she was a full 9.12 seconds behind the leader.  I know 10 seconds doesn’t sound like a lot, but it may as well be ten years in ‘Olympic time’.  She was clearly embarassed by her poor showing. 

“I was happy the people were cheering and encouraging me,” she said. “But I would have liked to be cheered because I won, not because I needed encouragement. It is something I will work on. I will try my best not to be the last person next time. It was very nice for people to give me that encouragement, but I would prefer the winning cheer.”

Her new goal?  Not to be last.

In the midst of the games – the opulence, the spectacle, the sheer grandeur - Samia’s countrymen could be found huddled around the few television sets with a signal.  It was 5am.  For a fleeting moment, a country ripped at the seams could be united, could take pride that their flag was among the flags of all the other nations in the world, could be inspired by an olympic torch that never traveled their city streets.

She gave it her everything, all without the prospect of the shiny lure, with the certain knowledge that she would win no medal, break no record.  Did she fail?  Yes.  But did she fail?

Every once in a while I get an email forward with a quote from Mark Twain,

“Dance like nobody’s watching; love like you’ve never been hurt. Sing like nobody’s listening; live like it’s heaven on earth.”

…and I wonder.  What could we do if we lived  like no one was watching?  If we knew that today was our last?  How would we love?  How open our hearts would be. 

If we let go of the need to be seen,  what magic could be wrought?