What Running With Other Women Means to CeCé Telfer

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Each month, the SELF Well-Read Book Club highlights a timely, delightful, and crucial book on a subject that helps readers live better lives. So far, we’ve covered everything from the politics of running to the state of modern motherhood. This summer, we’re reading CeCé Telfer’s new memoir, Make It Count: My Fight to Become the First Transgender Olympic Runner. Below, read an excerpt where Telfer describes her first time running on a women’s track team and competing as her authentic self. Read more about why we chose this month’s pick here.

It’s the first team meeting of the season. We’re all packed into the Bubble, waiting for Coach Zem. I’m sitting next to Lillian. Girl, it’s so good to finally have you here, where you belong, she says.And it feels so good, so right, almost surreal. An impossible dream, realized. There’s definitely been more work that’s gone into getting me here. I worked with administrators and the financial aid department to score a last-minute scholarship, a full ride for my final year at Franklin Pierce. I’m so profoundly grateful for this support; it has given me a life-changing opportunity. I feel so much excitement, so much momentum moving forward. I’ve also had to complete a lot of documentation, to officially join the female team. As it turns out, the NCAA has requirements for transgender athletes across all college sports. As a part of this, I will need to test my hormone levels every month, making sure I meet their protocols. My testosterone levels must stay below 5 nanomoles per liter. Thankfully, I’ve already been following these NCAA rules without realizing it. My trips to Planned Parenthood and my HRT regimen have kept me on track. So, finally, everything is in order.

Even still, I’m a little nervous.

Most of the returning girls know me and support me. But I’m not sure that everyone is one hundred percent on board with me training and competing alongside the female athletes. I’m especially worried about new students, who definitely don’t know my story. I’m worried that they won’t be accepting, that they won’t want me on their team.

Coach Zem walks into the room. The chatter dies down. Hello everyone! he says. I just wanted to have a meeting to welcome you all and kick off the season. He launches into a fairly standard speech, introducing all the coaches and the athletic director, setting the expectations for the year ahead. And there’s just one more thing I’d like to mention, he says before wrapping up. I feel my heart flutter. I know what’s coming. I want to introduce you all to CeCé Telfer. Most of you know her, but for those who don’t, she’s a very talented female athlete on our team, who happens to be transgender. Now, if anyone has any questions about that, they can come talk to me in my office. But I wanted to let you all know that she has the full support of every coach here, and I expect everyone on this team to have her back. Just like she has your back. Because we’re a family here. That’s what it means to be a team. Got it?

I look around the room. A couple of the new girls have doubtful expressions on their faces, but other than that I can tell that almost everyone is excited for me, happy that I’m going to be their teammate. I feel a little conflicted; I don’t love being singled out like this, but I also know that Coach Zem is smart for nipping any potential issues in the bud. He wants to create a safe space for me and ensure that I’ll have the smoothest transition onto the female team.

All right, now let’s have an amazing season!

Everyone claps and cheers. Lillian looks into my eyes and smiles. Later, as we’re all leaving the Bubble, Coach Zem pulls me aside.

This is gonna be your year, he says, with a determined look on his face. Let’s go straight to the top.

The Reggie Lewis Track & Athletic Center in Roxbury, Massachusetts. It’s Day One of the NEICAAA Indoor Track & Field Championships. Today we’ve got prelims, tomorrow will be the finals. This will be my first competition running with my fellow female athletes. I’m surrounded by my teammates as we file into the stadium. We walk through the massive glass entryway, and into an atrium that’s flooded with light. My heart is in my throat. I look to my teammate Paola, who flashes me a look that says: You’ve got this, girl. We’ve become so close during preseason training—I call her my Mexican sister. She has long brown hair, beautiful dark eyes, and a bright smile. She’s from Querétaro but came to the US to follow her dream of becoming an Olympian high jumper. She is such a talented athlete, with an incredible work ethic. On the field, she’s one hundred percent focused. But off the field, she loves to joke and laugh with me and Lillian. We’re a small little track family, and I love these girls so much. I don’t know if I could do this without their support.

We walk into the field house—a massive indoor facility with a blue rubber track bordered on either side by rows of bleachers. Already, people are packed into the stands. I make my way to the field for warm-ups, nervously sizing up the competition, wondering what they’re saying about me. I recognize many of the athletes from other schools. These athletes are used to calling me by my deadname, used to seeing me compete with the men, and I know they’re going to be caught off guard when they see me running with the women. I worry there’s going to be hate aimed in my direction.

How are you doing? Lillian asks, as we start stretching.

I’m okay, I reply, grateful that I have Lillian and Paola by my side. Even still, I feel a twinge of loneliness. Yes, I’m finally on the female track team. But I’m the only trans girl, and not just the only trans girl on our track team, but the only trans girl on a college track team in the whole conference, in the entire United States, possibly the world. There’s no one I can reach out to and ask for guidance, no one who can tell me: I’ve been there before, girl, and I understand what you’re going through.

I see Paola over by where the guys are warming up, talking to her boyfriend Trevor. He’s the captain for the men’s track team, and we’ve been running together for years. He’s an incredible athlete—hardcore, fast, and aggressive. He desperately wants to qualify for nationals. We all do, of course, but Trevor seems to be gunning for it the hardest. Sometimes I worry he’s pushing too hard, that if he doesn’t relax, he’ll never reach that goal he longs for so badly. But even though I have so much respect for him as an athlete, I worry that he doesn’t have that same respect for me, now that I’m competing with the women. This year feels different; it seems like he might be avoiding me, like he might not support Coach Zem’s decision to let me run as my true self. And I worry that the other men might also feel the same, that they’ll follow the lead of their team captain on this one.

On the track, time for the women’s 200 meters, the announcer says over the loudspeaker.

Fuck it. I don’t have time to worry about everyone else. I have to focus on my event. And you know what? If people want to talk shit, that’s fine with me. They can worry about whatever they want to worry about. All I have to do today is focus on myself, run my race, dominate my heat, qualify for finals, then get the hell out.

On your marks.

I crouch down, into my starting block. I shift my thoughts to the people who do have my back. All my supporters that helped me arrive here today.

Get set.

I’m going to win this race for them.

Boom! The gun goes off. I’m out of the blocks. Pure speed. Eating up that track. Pushing like I’ve never pushed. Pushing to prove the haters wrong, to prove to myself that yes, this is where I belong, this is who I am. I was born to run with women.

I cross the finish line.

I come in first place. First in my heat, but also first out of all the women in 200-meter prelims. I’ve made it to finals. Now, I feel like I’m on a roll.

Then, it’s time for the 60-meter hurdles. I know I’ve got this. I’m ready to crush it. And I do. I leave it all on the track. Come in first in my heat. Fourth in the overall prelims, but still a great time. I’ve made it to the finals in this event too. And I’m ready to kill it. I feel unstoppable.

After the meet, the whole team files out of the stadium, tired and ready to get something to eat, then rest up for finals the next day. As we pass athletes from another school, I hear one of them mutter something under his breath. I’m too far away to get exactly what he said, but I can tell by the way he’s looking at me that it wasn’t nice. But I rise above. Ignore him. Still, it hurts. I look back over my shoulder. Which is when I see something unexpected: Trevor, confronting this guy, standing up for me. They exchange a few tense words, then he jogs to catch up with our group again.

Fucking asshole, he mutters under his breath.

What were they saying? I ask.

Doesn’t matter what they were saying, he says. What matters is that I told them to shut the fuck up.

Thanks, I say.

He smiles at me. You killed it out there today.

Finally, I feel seen by Trevor. This warms my heart a bit. I never thought he would be the one to stand up for me. Maybe I was wrong, maybe he does really support me. And even if he still feels conflicted, I’m grateful that at least he is making strides toward accepting me, that a part of him sees who I am, and is willing to fight alongside me for my right to compete.

We’re at finals. I’m on fire. Ready to dominate.

First up, the 200 meters.

On your marks.

I line up with the eight other women who’ve made it to the finals. Suddenly, I’m struck by emotion. Tears well in my eyes. I say a prayer of gratitude, thank God for this opportunity, thank the other girls for seeing me, for letting me line up with them. And even if some don’t truly accept me right now, I pray that they’ll accept me in the future. Regardless, I’m grateful to be here. This is a meet I’ll never forget. The meet where I competed as myself for the first time.

Get set.

I wipe my tears. Focus. I’m not here to cry. I’m here to win this event.

Boom! The gun goes off.

I win the race.

But the day’s not over yet. I stay in competition mode. It’s time for the 60-meter hurdles. I dominate again. Win another race. I feel euphoric.

I did what needed to be done. I won first place in both my events. After the 60 meters, Trevor comes bounding up to me. CeCé! he yells.

What?

Your times qualified you for nationals.

I’ve qualified for nationals? I yell.

You’ve qualified for nationals!

Lillian, Paola, and Trevor, all surround me, loudly celebrating and laughing. I feel so much joy at this moment. And once again, I’m surprised by Trevor. He didn’t qualify for nationals today. It’s okay—there are still many other meets in the season where he’ll have a chance. But I know how badly he wants to go to nationals, and I know it probably wasn’t easy to see someone else achieve his goal before he did. But he put all that aside to acknowledge my achievement. This makes me feel seen, supported, and loved. It’s incredible—it’s the first major meet of the season, my first meet competing as my true self, and already I’ve qualified for the NCAA Indoor National Championship. It feels like a confirmation that I’m on the right path, that everything I’ve ever dreamed is finally within reach, that maybe, one day, CeCé Telfer will compete at the Olympic Games.

The backlash has started. My coaches, my athletic director, even the president of Franklin Pierce warned me that this might happen. Before my first competition, they met with me and asked me if I was prepared to deal with the negative fallout that could occur. I told them yes, that it was worth it to me, that I could handle whatever hate came my way.

But now I’m not so sure.

There have been articles in local papers, school papers, national papers, articles that express outrage that I was allowed to compete with the women, articles that deadname me, call me a man, and question the NCAA’s decision to let me run as myself. Some parents are outraged, and a group of them have started a petition to kick both me and Franklin Pierce University out of the NCAA. My coach is getting death threats, his wife too. They just had a baby and people online have threatened their entire family. And, of course, I’m also getting death threats.

I try to keep my head down. To shut out the noise from the haters. To just focus on training. Since I’ve already qualified for nationals, my coaches are being selective about which meets they send me to. Technically, I don’t need to compete again until the National Championships, but my coaches still want me to attend some high-profile meets, where I can work on getting my times down further. Throughout it all, I have to deal with this prejudiced myth that I possess an unfair advantage, that I’ll somehow come into women’s sports and dominate every race. But that, of course, isn’t true. I lose plenty of races to other female athletes. And the aggressive hormone regimen I’m on to meet NCAA regulations actually places me at a disadvantage—I’ve experienced a loss of strength, endurance, and longer post-workout recovery times due to the effects of my HRT.

There is no scientific evidence, no clinical studies, nothing that conclusively states that trans women have an advantage over cis females.

I also worry for my safety at the meets I attend, but I push through. Mostly I stay out of the spotlight, train behind the scenes, at Franklin Pierce, though at times I’m worried for my safety even on my own campus. The stress is high. I’m scared that people might somehow figure out where I live. That one of the online threats could be made real. That someone might find my dorm. Attack me. I cry every day before practice. I cry every day after practice. Sometimes it feels like the only time I’m not crying is at practice itself.

Why don’t you come stay with me, in our guest bedroom, for a little bit? Sasha-Lee asks one day, after I’ve vented to her about the crushing anxiety and fear that has come to dominate my days. Sasha-Lee is a friend who lives nearby, an older woman, a mother with a son and daughter in college, who volunteers frequently for the school. I met her during orientation, when she was helping with an LGBTQ event, and we hit it off. She’s someone I trust, someone who is invested in my journey, someone I talk to regularly when I need support.

I think that could be a good idea, I say.

That night, I’m at Sasha-Lee’s, chatting over a home-cooked meal, laughing with her husband and their kids, and sneaking the dogs bits of food under the table. Soon, I’m overcome with emotion. Despite all the unimaginable hate, despite the literal death threats that nearly every one of my supporters has received, no one has abandoned me. Not Sasha-Lee or her family, not my coaches, not my teammates. The NCAA has not wavered in their commitment to allow me to compete as myself. I’ve followed all their guidelines and rules, and they in turn have refused to bow to pressure from angry parents to ban me from the sport, they’ve refused to discriminate against me. They’ve stayed true to the integrity of their organization, and their commitment to allow all athletes to compete, regardless of gender, race, or sexual orientation. And as I sit here with Sasha-Lee and her family, lingering over the last bites of dessert, I feel such immense gratitude to know that no matter where I go, no matter what obstacles I face in life, I will always have a group of people who love me unconditionally, who support me even in the face of unimaginable hate. People who love the young woman I am, who will do anything to see her succeed.

Excerpted from MAKE IT COUNT: My Fight to Become the First Transgender Olympic Runner ©2024 CeCé Telfer and reprinted by permission from Grand Central Publishing/Hachette Book Group.

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Originally Appeared on SELF